The Malacca Conspiracy

Chapter 15

Northbound Interstate 95

Eight miles southwest of downtown Philadelphia

8:30 a.m.

The sun crested off to the right, peeking through the rusty warehouses and banged-up asphalt parking lots sweeping by the side of the road as his van raced to the north on the interstate.

“Why Philadelphia?” Mohammed blurted this question aloud, as if someone in the cabin of the U-Haul would give him an answer.

It was unfair. He had been in America longer than the others. His command of English was the best of the three. He had been studying the longest. His sacrifice had to be the greatest. Thus, should he not have a say in the matter? But Philadelphia?

They had claimed that Philadelphia had been selected because of its importance in American history. The Declaration of Independence had been signed here, they said. The Constitutional Convention had convened. Or so they told him. The famed American monument, the “Liberty Bell,” was also here, they said. Plus, the Americans would be suspecting another attack on New York. Philadelphia would be an easier target.

Despite all their justification, Mohammed suspected that he, as a Saudi citizen, probably knew more about American history than ninety percent of most Americans. He suspected that most Americans, especially those under thirty years of age, had no clue what the Constitution and Declaration of Independence were, let alone that they were signed in Philadelphia.

To most Americans, Philadelphia, along with Detroit, was one of the two ugliest cities in the entire country. Philadelphia was a rowdy place where football fans threw car batteries from the top of Eagles Stadium at opposing fans walking down below.

The city’s dirty, nasty reputation meant that there would be less sorrow and outcry over the strike against Philadelphia than the strikes to the other cities. Frankly, this bothered him.

So why was he not chosen to strike Washington? Or perhaps even San Francisco? These questions churned like a storm in his soul.

The coming blow to Washington, if it came to that, would be the sharp dart in the bull’s-eye of America’s heart.

He wanted to strike Washington. That was his understanding of his mission when he had come to America eight years ago. That is precisely why he had volunteered to sacrifice his life.

But then, they had changed his mission. In fact, his new target had been revealed to him only in the last month.

This he had struggled with. Thus, he had asked Allah to help him with his attitude. In response, Allah had reminded him of this truth: even though he had not been selected for San Francisco or Washington, still he, out of millions of martyrs who would have volunteered for this mission, had been called and chosen as one of only three.

Also, there was a chance that none of the other strikes would take place, at least not yet, assuming that the United Nations responded as General Perkasa had demanded. Since Philadelphia was first on the target list, America could acquiesce after his martyrdom, and his martyrdom alone.

“The Americans are soft and cannot stand carnage,” they had said. “After you enter martyrdom and are reunited with Allah, the Americans will back down. They will surely press the UN into passing our demands concerning Israel. Most of the UN already agrees with us anyway. So you, Mohammed, may be the only one who actually has the privilege of martyrdom.”

He saw their point, he supposed. His martyrdom alone might be sufficient to end the Jewish occupation of the homeland of Palestinian Muslims.

That thought gave him goose bumps.

He clicked his signal light approaching the next off-ramp. The sun was rising now over smoggy Philadelphia, but he needed to rest his body for the mission at hand.

The U-Haul van rolled to a stop at the top of the ramp. A small blue-and-white road sign pointed to an Econo Lodge a half-mile to the right.

Mohammed clicked the turn signal again, then pressed the accelerator. A moment later, he rolled into the asphalt parking lot and parked in front of the motel office.

He entered the office. A man, who looked Indian or Bangladeshi, stood behind the check-in desk.

“I need a room,” Mohammed said.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, “check-in is at one o’clock.”

Mohammed extracted a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and slid it across the desk. “Perhaps you could get a room ready early?”

The man pocketed the money. “Perhaps I can persuade a member of our custodial staff to prepare a room a bit early, Mr…”

“Jones.”

“Yes, of course. And could I please see some form of identification, Mr. Jones?”

Mohammed pulled another hundred from his wallet. “I seem to have left my license in my truck. The name is Ed Jones.”

“Of course, Mr. Jones.” The Indian was smiling now. “I’ve discovered that a room has just opened up. If you’ll give me about five minutes, I’ll make you a key to room 115. It’s just around the corner.”

United States Embassy

Jakarta, Indonesia

7:00 p.m.

Zack had grown up with many dear African American friends in the small coastal town of Plymouth, North Carolina. Now, for the first time in his life, he physically resembled many of those friends, he thought, as he glanced in the mirror after Master Chief Stoudemier had finished his handiwork with the shoe polish. At least his face resembled the faces of his friends.

His garb did not.

After the swift makeover, he was issued a black turtleneck sweater, black pants and boots, a black ski cap, an Uzi submachine gun, a small radio transmitter-receiver, and night vision goggles. In the last fifteen minutes, he had been miraculously transformed into a black man in black.

Amazing.

Still, there had been no word from Captain Noble on whether he could go on the mission. That was understandable. Captain Noble had spent the last hour war planning with Lieutenant Commander Garcia and the other SEAL squad leaders.

Now, word had come that the SEALs were meeting in the large dining area of the embassy in five minutes. They were already assembling in the hallway and were making their way into the dining hall.

Could this be it? Had Washington approved the mission? Would he be allowed to accompany the SEAL team into the palace? A blurry flash of thoughts raced through his mind. Would he find Diane? Alive?

What if they found her dead? The Indonesian president had already been assassinated. Diane and the ambassador were meeting with the president when the bomb detonated. Weren’t they?

If they found her body, would he put the cold barrel of the Uzi in his mouth and simply pull the trigger? Get ahold of yourself, Zack.

“Hustle up, men,” Lieutenant Commander Garcia was saying in the hallway. “Muster in the dining hall. Captain Noble has some instructions.”

Some instructions? Washington must’ve approved the mission.

“Zack.” A firm voice came from behind him, then a strong hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Captain Noble, decked totally in black like the rest of the SEALs, carrying an Uzi in his left hand. “Stick close to me. We’re going, and against my better judgment, I’m approving your request to go in with us. You understand the risk and the danger?”

“Yes, sir.” His heart flew into hyper speed.

“All right, muster up and listen to my instructions.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Zack quickly stepped into the dining hall, now mostly full of other black-clad, black-faced Navy SEALs, sitting at various tables scattered around the room. At the front of the room, a podium and microphone had been placed, and behind it, a large screen. Zack quickly found a table near the front of the room and sat.

Lieutenant Commander Garcia stepped into the dining hall. “Attention on deck!”

The entire SEAL team shot to its feet and froze at attention, as Captain Noble strode quickly across the room.

“At ease and be seated.” The captain moved quickly behind the podium. “Gentlemen.” Noble’s commanding voice reverberated across the room. “We’ve just gotten word. Washington has approved our mission. We move out in”-he looked at his watch-“one hour from now. Listen and listen carefully. In fifteen minutes, we’re heading back up to the heliport to load onto the choppers.

“We will have thirty minutes in the palace. Now you’ve all been studying the maps that we’ve supplied, and you know that there are two principal target areas where we look first for our people. First, there’s the president’s office, which is here.” He pointed to the map projected on an overhead projector.

“We believe that the president was assassinated here, and that the ambassador and the commander were here. The XO will take his team here.”

“Lieutenant?” Noble nodded and one of the SEAL team lieutenants fired up a PowerPoint. On the wall, an image appeared. The man on the wall looked like a South American tinhorn dictator. Zack had studied the US 1989 military operation against Panama, and this man looked like a twin brother of the former Panamanian dictator, Manuel Noriega.

“This, gentlemen, is General Suparman Perkasa. He is the chief of staff of the Indonesian military. Our intelligence believes that he may be the man behind the assassination of President Santos.

“This afternoon, Indonesia exploded a nuclear bomb on Gag Island in the Halmahera Sea.” Mumbling arose from the SEALs. “Listen up. From the information that we have, it appears that one of our cruisers, USS Port Royal, was crippled in that blast. We believe that much of the crew may have been lost.”

Silence. The gravity of the situation was now settling on Zack. Diane could be in the hands of a nuclear madman.

“Now, this general has gone on television and threatened the United States with nuclear blackmail.

“We think this guy might be holed up in the palace. The lieutenant is now passing out photos of him. If we see him, we are to take him out. Am I clear on this?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Aye, Captain!”

“Put the map back up, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Now we think that perhaps Perkasa, if he’s in the palace, could be operating in the vicinity of the president’s office, which is here.” He tapped on the map at the hallway outside the presidential office.

“The other principal target is here.” The captain was pointing to a different area of the map. “The medical clinic.” He eyed his men. “If there are injuries, or if there have been fatalities”-Captain Noble glanced at Zack-“we expect the dead and the injured to be here. We may have to shoot our way through. But if the lights are out, we have an advantage. We own the night.

“Remember, our objective is the safety and rescue of our people. That means bringing the ambassador and Lieutenant Commander Colcernian out of there. We move quickly once in the palace and then we report back to the roof, where the choppers will be waiting. Anyone not back on the roof will be left behind. We must work quickly and efficiently, and we must be deadly. Any questions?” A hand went up. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Sir, will we be receiving backup from the battle group?”

“The plan calls for air cover by F/A-18s from the Reagan. Hopefully that will keep the Indonesian Air Force off our tails if they discover us. But we’re vulnerable to anti-aircraft fire from the ground. That answer your question?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Other questions?”

There were none.

“Very well. Let’s get moving.”

Jakarta Air Base

7:15 p.m.

The pilots had given him no more trouble, but had obeyed his orders to land the plane. As well they should have. The arrogant punks.

And now, as the Indonesian Air Force C-9 taxied down the runway to the tarmac, the pilots would see.

They would see by the reception awaiting him exactly who they were up against. When they saw him promoted to the rank of colonel on the spot, they would think twice about causing trouble over the incident on the plane.

Hassan stood up. Standing in the aisle of the taxiing plane, he pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed his medals. Then he rubbed his bars signifying his rank as captain. This would be the last time, he thought, that he would have to worry about a smudgy fingerprint on his captain’s bars. From this day forward, he would be wearing the insignia of a colonel. Or perhaps, yes, perhaps they would promote him directly to general right here on the spot. He could not help but to shiver at the thought of it.

The plane rolled to a stop. A moment later, one of the stewards opened the door to the plane. Hassan took a breath and stepped out onto the portable stairwell. He looked down.

No lights.

No honor guard.

No television cameras.

The bastards! They had rolled the plane to a stop at an area of the airport away from the ceremony. All to embarrass him…to avoid having to witness him receive his just promotion in his glory!

“We are in the wrong place!” he yelled back at the steward. This would not go without repercussions. “I want to see the pilot! Now!” Hassan screamed.

The pilot stepped to the door. “What is it now, Captain?”

“Why have we rolled the plane to a stop here?” he demanded.

The disrespectful pilot looked sarcastically at the steward, and then back at Hassan. “Captain Taplus, we stopped the plane here because we were ordered by ground control to stop the plane here. We park the plane wherever ground control tells us to park it.”

What garbage. “It is a crime under the Indonesian Code of Military Justice to lie to a superior officer,” Hassan screamed. “You are a liar, and you will not go unpunished!”

“With all due respect, Captain,” the pilot snarled, “you are not my superior officer. I am a captain too. We are of the same rank.”

“We will see about that,” Hassan snapped. He reached for his pistol. As his hand felt the grip, an Indonesian army sergeant bounded up the portable staircase toward the cockpit entrance.

“Captain Taplus!” the sergeant shouted, flashing a salute as he approached the two men. “Colonel Croon sent me to pick you up, sir.”

“Colonel Croon is not here?” Hassan returned the salute. The ungrateful piece of scum. Sending a sergeant to the air base. Croon was undoubtedly feeling threatened already and was trying to undercut his promotion.

“The colonel is with the general,” the sergeant said. “Your presence is needed.”

“Very well.” At least that comment would let the pilot know who he was dealing with. He turned back to the pilot. “This is your lucky day, Captain. I will deal with you later.” He turned to the sergeant. “Let’s go, Sergeant.”

United States Embassy

Jakarta, Indonesia

7:20 p.m.

The warm tropical night air was blowing from the north, barely noticeable against the wind gusts generated from the whirling blades of the three choppers sitting atop the embassy helipad.

The Uzi strapped over his shoulder, Zack stood on the helipad alongside Captain Noble, watching the captain bark orders.

“Move, move, move!” Captain Noble was motioning with his hands and directing the SEALs, who were climbing in an orderly fashion into the three SH-60B Seahawk Navy choppers on the pad.

Because the embassy itself was less than a mile from Merdeka Palace, the execution plan called for the choppers to make a wide swoop in the air, first to the south, then circling all the way around the city to hit the palace from the north.

Choppers One and Three would attack the palace’s power plants with rocket-propelled grenades, while Tomahawk 2, spearheaded by Captain Noble’s group, would lead the burst onto the palace roof.

“Okay, let’s go, Zack,” Captain Noble said. “Head down. Stick with me.” Sprinting across the roof behind the other SEALs, Zack followed Noble to Tomahawk 2, jumped in the cargo bay, and strapped into a nylon jump seat. “Get these birds in the air,” Noble ordered. A second later, Tomahawk 2 lifted off, pulling away from the lighted embassy below.

With hot adrenaline rushing down his neck, Zack gritted his teeth and gripped the Uzi like it was the only present his mama ever gave him.

He was going to kill someone.

He knew it.

Soekarno-Hatta International Airport

Jakarta, Indonesia

7:22 p.m.

The sound of buzzing hornets swarmed into the headset again. The controller cursed, then ripped the headsets off and tossed them down as the radar screens went blank.

“Chief, we’ve lost all contacts on radar again!”

Other air traffic controllers in the room stood and waved their hands in the air. “Mine’s down too!” shouted one. “Radar’s blank!” another yelled.

“What the…” The chief air traffic controller stormed across the room, unleashing a string of profanity. “Notify all inbound traffic. Radar failure! Get these planes turned around. Now!”

SH-60B Seahawk (“Tomahawk 2”)

Over Jakarta, Indonesia

7:30 p.m.

The Seahawk’s cargo door was wide open, and six US Navy SEALs sat on the chopper floor at the ledge, their legs dangling down over the white city lights of Jakarta just below them.

Zack grasped the gun and carefully crouched on the deck just behind them, about four feet from the edge. Not even the supercharged adrenaline flowing through his veins was sufficient to fully erase his fear of heights that had been with him since the first time his granddaddy had sent him up to the top of a tobacco barn when he was just a boy.

Zack looked out, not down.

Out to the right, Tomahawk 1 was flying slightly ahead of Zack’s chopper, and Tomahawk 3 was flying to the left.

“Stand by, men,” Captain Noble said. “We’re going once we turn out the lights. Stand by. Three, two, one…”

Pwfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff.

A blazing rocket streaked from Tomahawk 1 to the left wing of the palace. BOOM!

Pwfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff.

BOOM! Another rocket, this from Tomahawk 3, rocked the right side of the palace.

The palace went dark.

“Let’s go, baby!” Captain Noble said.

“’Twas the night that the lights went out in Jakarta!” someone yelled.

“Woooooooooo!” Someone imitated WWF Heavyweight Ric Flair.

Tomahawk 2 dipped its nose and feathered down on the center roof of the building.

“Go! Go! Go!” Captain Noble shouted. The first wave of SEALs leapt out of the chopper. “Let’s go, Zack!”

Zack’s feet hit the asphalt roof. He sprinted-following the SEALs in a straight line at a forty-five-degree angle from the chopper.

Chit-a-chit-a-chit-a-chit-a-chit-chit. “Hit the deck!”

Gunfire ricocheted off the roof and the steel guardrails at the edge of it.

Zack dived, hitting the deck right beside Captain Noble.

Chit-a-chit-a-chit-a-chit. The SEALs returned the fire.

Just over to the left beside the guard shack that led down into the building, two male silhouettes staggered, then fell.

“Let’s rock!”

The SEALs rose, rushing the guard shack.

“Door’s locked, Skipper,” one of the SEALs said, as Choppers One and Three feathered down on the roof.

“Concussion grenade! Now!”

“Aye, Skipper.” A SEAL tossed a hand grenade at the locked door.

BOOM!

The door blew open.

“Let’s go!” Captain Noble shouted.

Zack got up and moved forward with the SEALs.

Another silhouette appeared quickly from behind the guard shack, his gun drawn on Captain Noble.

Zack raised his Uzi and squeezed the trigger. Chit-a-chit-a-chit-a. The silhouette slumped over.

Tonight, I’m going to kill somebody. His instincts were right.

“Jones. Rogers. Check the back of that shack and make sure the roof is clear.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

Zack followed a group of SEALs into the shack, then quickly down the steps. From overhead, more bursts of machine-gun fire, then the roar of American fighter jets.

They reached a first landing and jogged down another twelve steps or so to a second landing. They stopped, gently pushed open a door, and stepped into a large, dark hallway. The sound of voices could be heard throughout. A flashlight beam shot down the hall, then disappeared.

Captain Noble motioned his squad of six men into the hallway, which was visible through the night goggles. They moved swiftly about fifty feet down the hallway, which led to another open corridor, where crisscrossing flashlight beams cut across the floor.

The SEALs stopped at the entrance of the corridor, tucking themselves into the dark crevices away from the direct path of the flashlight beams. This was the corridor where the medical clinic was located. Zack’s heart pounded. Perhaps Diane was only a few feet away.

Captain Noble motioned again. Crouching, the SEALs turned carefully into the hallway, hugging up against the wall as they moved forward in an effort to avoid the flashlight beams. Zack was in the middle of the moving column, with three SEALs in front of him and three behind.

They had moved about fifteen feet down the corridor when the first flashlight beam caught the front of the column.

Machine-gun fire from the lead SEAL.

Now a flashlight beam from the rear.

More machine-gun fire.

The flashlight beams vanished from both directions. Four Indonesian guards, two at each end of the corridor, lay slumped on the floor.

Another thirty feet down the hallway where two of the dead Indonesians lay bleeding on the floor, they approached two swinging doors.

The entrance to the medical clinic!

Captain Noble pushed open the doors and led the SEALs into a reception area. Two women in nurse uniforms were on the floor, cowering.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhh. One of the SEALs motioned with his finger to his lips.

“Rodriguez. Jones. Post here. Nobody comes in. Nobody goes out,” Noble said.

“Aye, Skipper.”

“Anderson. Jenkins. Round up all medical personnel in the clinic and hold ’em in here.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Okay, let’s check the examination rooms in the back,” Captain Noble said. “Move, move!”

Residence of General Perkasa

Jakarta, Indonesia

7:37 p.m.

General, we have an urgent situation developing!” Suparman Perkasa, the new leader of the Islamic Republic of Indonesia, looked up and saw Colonel Erman Croon rushing into his office, past the array of television cameras. Croon had a frantic look on his face and was waving a paper in his hand.

“What is it, Colonel?”

“I’ve gotten a call from Merdeka Square. It appears that Merdeka Palace is under attack!”

“Under attack? By whom?”

“We have reports of helicopters landing on the building. Radar is out all over the city. At first controllers attributed it to an internal malfunction. But now we think perhaps external jamming.”

“Jamming?”

“Yes, sir. There are reports of fighter jets circling over the palace. They are not ours.”

Perkasa pounded his fist on the desk. “Americans.” He stood and folded his arms. “I expected them to try something. But not this soon.”

“Agreed, General,” Colonel Croon said. “They probably think you are at the palace, sir. My guess is that they are trying to take us out, sir, before tomorrow’s deadline.”

The colonel was right, Suparman knew. He had to think quickly. “We must strike now, Erman,” he said, referring to Croon by his first name. “This attack changes the dynamics.”

“Yes, General.”

“What’s our security situation in the palace?”

“Standard security, sir. Sufficient to deal with civilian threats from the outside. Insufficient against an outside military threat. Especially an American SEAL team or US Marines, if that’s who has hit us. Plus, we’ve lost power…or rather the power has been disabled.”

“Very well,” the general said. “Get four platoons over there. Now!”

“Yes, General.”

“And get some of our planes up and over the palace.”

“But, General.” The colonel ran his hand through his thinning hair. “If those unidentified jets are US Navy F-18s, our fighters would be at a severe disadvantage.”

The colonel was right. Suparman knew it in his gut. Indonesian fighters against American jets-if that’s what they were-would be a suicide mission.

This had to be an American operation. Radar down over the city. Helicopters and troops hitting the palace. Unidentified fighter jets roaring overhead. Classic American military tactics.

This was his first crisis as leader. He had to act quickly and decisively. But he had to be smart.

“Okay, get our planes up for observation, but stay out of the area. Get mobile antiaircraft batteries around the palace to challenge any unidentified aircraft approaching or leaving the palace.”

“That will take at least thirty minutes, sir.”

“Get on it!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Colonel?”

“Yes, General.”

“One other thing.”

“Yes, General?”

“Order execution of phase one of Operation Decapitate. Now. We must strike even before the deadline. America will pay for what it has done.”

“Yes, sir!”

Merdeka Palace

7:39 p.m.

Zack, follow me,” Captain Noble said. They stepped into a hallway behind the reception area of the medical clinic. The first door to the right was an examination room. “Cover,” Captain Noble ordered. Two SEALs brought their Uzis into firing position.

The captain pushed the door open. A flat examination table was in the middle of the room. On it a sheet covered the form of what appeared to be a body.

Time froze. Zack’s stomach rushed to his throat. Jesus, don’t let it be her.

The captain grabbed the top of the sheet. Zack looked away as the captain pulled the sheet back.

Captain Noble said, “It’s President Santos.”

Zack exhaled and looked up. The president’s black eyes were frozen open. His mouth cavity was so wide you could put an apple in it. This was a body whose last emotion had been one of great fear.

Thank God it wasn’t Diane.

Captain Noble whipped out a camera and snapped several shots, lighting the room with the brilliant flash, and burning an image of the president’s stony, dead face into Zack’s head. “Let’s move,” Noble said.

They quick-stepped into the hallway, turned right, and then stopped at the next examination room.

Same drill. “Cover,” Noble said. Uzis drawn in firing position. Noble kicked the door open.

Two female nurses, crying, shaking, stood at the head and foot of another examination table, their hands up in the air. A patient was on the examination table. Plastic tubing, IV lines, were running to his arms.

“It’s the ambassador!” the captain said. “He’s conscious. Rodriguez. Jones. In here! Bring a stretcher! You all right, sir?”

The ambassador rolled his eyes toward Zack, managing an unintelligible grunt.

Rodriguez and Jones burst through the door, carrying one of the two portable, lightweight stretchers that each team had brought from the chopper.

“Get him up top. Take him to Tomahawk 1. Take Branson and Paulus up with you. On the double!”

“Aye, sir!”

“Whatever the IVs are, keep them in his arm.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

Zack lifted the IV bag off the chrome tree, as Rodriguez and Jones quickly lifted the ambassador under his shoulders and by his feet, setting him down on the stretcher on the floor. Zack placed the two IV bags on the stretcher just under the ambassador’s arm.

“Got it,” Rodriguez said.

“All right, guys, move!”

They lifted the stretcher with the ambassador off the floor, and moved him out of the room.

“We gotta hurry,” the captain said. “They’ll have reinforcements storming this place.”

They stepped into the hallway again and turned right. They approached a third room. “Cover!” With Uzis drawn, Noble pushed the door open.

Zack felt his heart drop to the floor.

“Nothing.”

Antiaircraft Battery Four

Bogor, Indonesia (thirty miles south of Jakarta)

7:40 p.m.

The duty officer was just tasting his first bite of cendol, the popular Indonesian dessert consisting of shaved ice, coconut milk, palm sugar, and green food coloring, when the phone rang.

The officer cursed, then barked an answer as he picked up the receiver. “Lieutenant Ortiz.”

He swallowed the cold dessert and sat up straight at the news coming over the telephone.

“What? Unidentified enemy helicopters? Merdeka Palace?”

Hearing those words, several other officers in the barracks put down their playing cards and leaned in toward Ortiz.

“Yes, sir…I understand…You want a battery of handheld stinger antiaircraft missiles deployed immediately…yes, sir…Shoot down any choppers flying from the direction of Jakarta…Yes, sir.” He nodded at the other officers, whose eyes were glued on him. “We’re moving out now.”

Merdeka Palace

7:41 p.m.

Okay, keep moving,” Captain Noble snapped. The armed SEAL team moved down toward the end of the hallway. Only two more examination rooms.

Zack’s mind raced. If they didn’t find Diane here, they probably wouldn’t find her.

“Cover!” The SEALs again drew their machine guns to firing position. Captain Noble kicked open another door. “Nothing! Check the last one!” The armed team moved further down the hallway.

If she’s not here, I’m not leaving. They can leave me. I’m staying ’til I find her.

“Cover!” Drawn submachine guns. A swift boot on another door. “We got something!”

Two Indonesian guards were standing with their hands over their heads. “Get their guns.” Two SEALs rushed to the guards, taking their pistols.

Zack’s eyes fell to the corner of the room. The sight would forever be burned into his mind. The stretcher was pushed against the wall, and on it, Diane lay on her side, forced almost into the shape of a human “S.” A white rag tightly gagged her mouth, and her legs were bound by a thick rope by her ankles. Her white uniform skirt was riding just a bit above the knee, and her hands were tied behind her back. At that moment, a visceral instinct overtook Zack. He wanted to kill!

“Cut her loose, Zack!”

Zack whipped the stainless-steel combat knife from his belt.

“Hang on, Diane. We’re getting you out of here.” He slipped the blade through the cloth that was gagging her mouth.

“Zack? Is that you?” She exhaled and coughed.

“Think I’d leave you in here?” he said. “Never. Now give me your wrists.”

Very carefully to avoid slicing her wrists, Zack slid the knife through the ropes that bound her.

“Hold still.” He bent over to the floor, sliced through the rope and freed her legs. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. A little bruised.”

“Can you walk, Commander?” Captain Noble asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Just having a little trouble seeing in the dark.”

“We had to cut the lights. Zack, here’s an extra set of night goggles. Help her out?”

“Aye, Captain.” Zack slipped the night goggles over Diane’s eyes.

“You look great in black, Zack.”

“Okay, let’s get to the choppers!”

They moved swiftly out of the clinic area, and back into the dark hallway. There were six of them now. The remaining squad from the SEAL team, plus Diane.

They jogged down the hallway back toward the stairway leading to the roof. The crisscrossing flashlight beams were gone. As they reached the stairwell leading to the roof, the roaring sound of helicopter engines thundered down the stairwell and into the hallway. They turned right in a single-file column and ascended the stairway.

They reached the roof. Chopper 1 had already lifted off with the ambassador.

SEALs were stationed around the other two choppers in a perimeter, their guns positioned outward.

“Perimeter is secure, Captain,” Lieutenant Commander Garcia shouted. “Choppers ready for takeoff!”

“What about Perkasa?” the captain shouted back at the XO over the roar of the choppers. “Did you find him?”

“Negative, sir!” The wind from the rotors was flapping their uniforms and blowing Diane’s hair. “We searched everywhere. Nothing. Took out five Indonesian guards.”

Captain Noble glanced at his watch. “We’re out of time!” Noble said. “Everybody in the choppers! Now! Zack, take Diane first.”

Zack took Diane’s hand, ducked to avoid the rotor blades, and sprinted across the roof toward Tomahawk 2. One of the SEALs already inside reached down and pulled Diane into the aircraft. Zack hopped in behind her, and three other SEALs piled in behind him.

Captain Noble was the last to board Tomahawk 2. Zack looked out and saw Lieutenant Commander Garcia and his squad piling into Tomahawk 3.

“Okay, take her up!”

The props revved, and Tomahawk 2 lifted into the sky, ascending straight up to perhaps five hundred feet over the roof. Then, dipping its nose, it started its trek through the black night, above the lights of Jakarta, to the south, out toward the sea.