The Malacca Conspiracy

Chapter 17

The White House

9:00 a.m.

With his shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms and his arms folded, President Mack Williams was pacing back and forth just at the head of the long conference table in the Situation Room.

“Still nothing?” He glanced at the secretary of defense, Erwin Lopez, as if tossing him a presidential glance would somehow speed the flow of information from a nighttime military operation half a world away.

“Still nothing, sir,” Lopez said. At that very instant, the secure line from the Pentagon rang in front of the defense secretary. “Secretary Lopez.”

Mack watched as Lopez sat with the phone to his ear, scribbling on a legal pad.

“The ambassador is out?” Lopez looked at the president and nodded. “One chopper down…”

Not again.

Secretary Lopez hung up the phone.

“What’s going on, Mr. Secretary?”

“The good news is that we’ve rescued the ambassador. He’s injured, but he’s on board one of our choppers over the Indian Ocean, headed for the Reagan. They’re under fighter escort and out of range of the Indonesians.”

“Thank God,” Mack said. “Did I hear you say we’ve got a chopper down?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. President.”

“Who was on board?”

“That’s not clear yet, sir. The SEAL team was spread out over all three choppers.”

“Did they find Commander Colcernian?”

“No word on that, sir. I’m sure we’ll know when the other two choppers land on the carrier.”

“What about Perkasa?”

“Nothing, Mr. President.”

Mack slammed his fist on the table. “A chopper down. Perkasa still at large. I feel like I’m one for three.”

Members of the National Security Council sat for a moment, many with blank looks on their faces.

Then the secretary of state spoke up. “You know, Mr. President, in baseball, one for three at the plate is pretty darned good. And the game’s not over. In fact, we’ve just started.”

The comment brought a smile to Mack’s face. “Secretary Mauney, you always have a way of finding the right thing to say at the right time.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That’s why you’re this nation’s chief diplomat.” Now Mack had Robert Mauney smiling. “And you’re right, this is not the end. In fact, your baseball analogy reminds me of the words of one of my political heroes, Winston Churchill. ‘This is not the end. This is not, even, the beginning of the end. But it may, just possibly, be the end of the beginning.’”

The quote brought chills to his spine.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, leaning forward with his hands on the table, and eyeing the members of the NSC, “Winston Churchill, Ronald Reagan, and other great leaders of the twentieth century showed us by their words and their actions that evil is not always easily defeated. Nothing worthwhile is easy.

“Let’s get back to work. I want to find Perkasa, and I want to take him out.”

Across from St. Stephen’s Catholic Church

Jakarta, Indonesia

8:05 p.m.

The white marble was lit against the night by bright spotlights shining up from the ground. The statue was inanimate, she knew. But still, somehow, the image of Jesus holding his palms to the heavens brought comfort to her in the midst of a personal maelstrom. The other times, she had visited the church during daylight hours, and she had never really noticed the statue.

If only he could talk. If only he were here. But strangely, it seemed that he was here. As if he had walked and run and jogged with her all the way across the city to the doors of this house that belonged to him.

In the hours after she had fled from the Martins’ home, Kristina started sensing a warm presence with her, somehow drawing her here. Now that she had arrived outside the church, the statue of him stood out like a sign that she was about to do the right thing.

Was she? Could she really trust the priest? Suppose she had been followed?

If they had killed the president, was anyone off limits? Of course not. They would kill her, she knew, for what she knew, for who she knew, and for what she held in her hands.

Still, it was as if a spirit within her had drawn her here-it was a strange and gentle spirit through the midst of danger and death. Perhaps this was the spirit of God? She could not say for sure. But if she were going to die anyway, it seemed that the spirit was reassuring her that this was a place to die in peace.

She looked behind her to see if she had been followed, and then finding a slight gap in the cars that were zooming back and forth in both directions, she jogged across the street and up the granite steps to the front doors.

Panting, Kristina reached for the doorknob and turned.

Locked.

Her eyes turned back to the busy street and sidewalk. Surely somebody was watching her. They were out there. Somewhere. Perkasa’s men. In the dark behind the streaking cars, someone had a rifle trained on her.

Panic gripped her body now.

Of course the church was going to be closed at this hour. What was she thinking? Where to go?

Instinctively, her body pivoted back around to the door-and her hand went to the doorknob. She shook it, twisted it, and tried knocking on the door. Then she beat on it. No one. Nothing but the noise of traffic swirling behind her.

The warm feeling turned to ice, and she cocked her head to the heavens, her eyes again on the illuminated statue. “Did you bring me here just to lock me out?” she screamed, as tears began welling in her eyes.

As her eyes moved from the statue, gradually back down the outer walls of the cathedral, she saw it. A small sign illuminated only by the fluorescent glow of a distant street light.

After Hours Emergencies Only: Press Buzzer Below.

“Thank you!” She pressed and held the button, igniting a long, grating buzz.

Nothing.

She pressed the buzzer again.

“May I help you?” A woman’s voice came back over the loudspeaker.

“I need to see the father.”

“Which father? We have several priests on the staff.”

“I don’t know. The one that does confession. I’ve been several times.”

“One moment, please.”

A couple of minutes passed. The woman’s voice returned. “Is there something I can help you with? We have a food pantry around the back of the church if you are in need.”

“I need the father. Now! Please tell him it’s an emergency!”

“Could I tell him what kind of emergency?”

What to do? Kristina wiped her forehead. “Tell him I am the one who said that someone is going to die. Someone important! Tell him that it happened…that it happened today!”

A pause. “Wait one moment, please.”

Now it was out. She knew. They would know that she knew. They would figure out that she was talking about the president…that she knew about the assassination. Her mind swirled like a raging windstorm. They had probably called the authorities.

The sound of a siren approached from down the highway in front of the church. A police car sped down the road. Its flashing lights swirled. Run! Now!

The police car zoomed past the church. It did not stop.

At that moment, the door opened. A man’s voice came from the dark shadows. “Sister Marguerita says you are looking for me.” She recognized the voice from the confessional booth. A figure appeared. “I’m Father Ramon. I believe we’ve spoken before.”

“I am afraid, Father. I am so afraid.”

“Please come in. This is God’s house. You are safe here.”

Northbound Interstate 95

Five miles southwest of downtown Philadelphia

9:10 a.m.

The traffic was remarkably light for this time of morning, Mohammed thought as the van curved to the left and then crossed Island Avenue, leaving the perimeter of the airport off to the right. Another curve to the left brought the van to the bridge crossing the Schuylkill River. Here, three northbound big rigs clogged the swift flow of traffic to a slow-moving bottleneck creeping onto the bridge.

In the middle of the I-95 bridge, the U-Haul came to a stop behind the eighteen-wheeler. Mohammed cursed. Then, with nowhere else to go, he realized that he was witnessing the last view of a waterway that he would ever see this side of paradise.

What a depressing sight, under the bright light of the morning sun, this vintage panorama of the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard, home of America’s Atlantic “mothball fleet.” Rusting steel hulks by the hundreds, in the form of US Navy warships, testified that America’s greatest days as a world power ended with the last century.

And the mortal blow that he would strike at the heart of the City of Brotherly Love would underscore further ineptitude of this giant cesspool’s ability to protect its infidels in its largest population centers.

He had driven this route down the wide expanses of Broad Street dozens of times in preparation for this moment. The buildings…he could see them in his sleep. To his right…the basketball arenas whose names had changed with the failed American banks they had been named for…The First Union Center which became the Wachovia Center and then the Wells Fargo Center, and behind it, the Lincoln Financial Field, home of the Philadelphia Eagles.

What a shame that martyrdom would not come there. At Lincoln Financial Field, in the midst of seventy thousand obnoxious infidels. But the martyrdom would come. Soon.

Past the sports complexes, the drive north along the southern section of Broad Street was a picture of the scum of urban decay. Abandoned, dilapidated buildings. Plywood nailed over broken glass. Windows smashed out with no plywood coverings. Drug dealers huddled in alleyways, swapping cash for cocaine. Vagrants openly urinating in back alleys. All the product of decadent America and its worship of Judeo-Christian Zionism.

Purification was coming soon. The thought brought a sudden peace to Mohammed’s soul. He stepped on the accelerator, running the yellow light at the intersection of Broad Street and Snyder Avenue.

Crystal Tea Room at Wanamaker Building

Downtown Philadelphia

9:30 a.m.

The Philadelphia Chamber of Commerce was due in for its luncheon in another two-and-a-half hours. Marie Carter had already been working for two hours, along with other members of the kitchen staff, setting fine china plates and sterling silverware on the flower-adorned banquet tables.

“Ready for a smoking break?” This was the friendly voice of her supervisor and smoking pal, Sally Rawlins, who, like Marie, needed a ten-minute nicotine fix at least once every two hours to get through the day.

“I need to make a quick call,” Marie said.

“Okay, maybe I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” Sally walked out of the large banquet room and into the hallway.

Marie pulled her cell phone from her purse. “No signal,” she mumbled. “What a surprise.”

Stepping over to the window, which faced the back side of historic Philadelphia City Hall, the signal bars reappeared on the screen.

She punched “1” on the speed dial, and four rings later, the sound of her own voice bellowed from the answering machine at her home eighteen miles to the east, far across the Delaware River in Berlin, New Jersey.

“You have reached the Carter residence. No one is available to take your call. Leave your name and number and we’ll get back with you.” Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

“Honey, are you there?…Are you there?…Will you pick up, please?…I guess you’re out on your jog. Listen, we’re pretty busy with a Chamber of Commerce banquet and I don’t know if I’ll be back in time to pick up the girls from school. Do you think you’d be able to help me out? Good luck with the interviews today. I know you’re going to find a job soon. Love you. Miss you. Bye-bye!”

She clamped the phone shut. Eric had been without work for nearly a year now, and every day for the last year, she had prayed that something would open. But still, nothing. Nobody wanted to hire a midlevel bank executive in his mid-thirties. Not in this economy anyway. Downsizing and corporate layoffs had taken its hard toll on so many, and she had taken this job to try and slow the bleeding.

And it wasn’t all that bad. History had always been her favorite subject in school, and she loved teaching it to her two young daughters, Amy and Sharon, whom she had home-schooled through fifth grade. But this year, when Eric lost his job, they had placed the girls in public schools while she went back to work part-time. And although neither the hours nor the work were particularly rewarding, it was nice to be able to look out at the historic Philadelphia City Hall, with a huge clock larger than London’s Big Ben. The majestic building on Penn Square had been the tallest building in the world until 1908. She was fortunate, in many ways, that if she had to work, she could at least work in the midst of a great cradle of American history. And in this, she found at least some solace and inspiration.

She checked her watch. Not enough time now for that smoking break. That was all right. She had been trying to quit anyway, and had been praying for the strength to stop. She sipped her coffee and glanced down at the bustling activity on the square.

Downtown Philadelphia

9:33 a.m.

Mohammed slowed the van as it approached the intersection of Broad and Chestnut Streets. The large clock tower of the Philadelphia City Hall loomed five hundred fifty feet in the air, rising above Penn Square just a half a block directly in front of him. On top of the clock tower stood the statue of the dead infidel William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania.

The van reached Penn Square, and Momammed swung around the square to the right. Then, following the perimeter road around the square, he turned to the left again.

He pulled the van over to the left, just behind the Philadelphia City Hall on the east side of Penn Square, almost in front of the Market Street entryway to Penn Square.

Car horns from obnoxious Philly drivers blared in protest of the van blocking the left traffic lanes. He would have to hurry. The cops would descend upon him any moment.

He reached over to the small suitcase that was sitting in the seat next to him and popped it open.

Honk! “Hey, move over, ya lousy scumbag!” The driver shook his fist at the van.

Another driver pushed down on the horn. “Get out of the road!” another driver yelled in an obnoxious Philly accent.

Mohammed rested his thumb on the detonator. He closed his eyes and turned his head to the right, in an easterly direction toward Mecca. “Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah.”

Crystal Tea Room at Wanamaker Building

Downtown Philadelphia

9:35 a.m.

That’s odd,” Marie mumbled aloud, looking out the window and down at the U-Haul that was blocking the traffic lane and making so much commotion behind City Hall.

A twisting in her stomach told her that something wasn’t right. Then, sudden, unexpected panic washed over her, as if forewarning her.

“April,” she instinctively called to the coworker standing nearest to the window. “Come check this out.”

The van exploded into the blinding sun. Great heat burned Marie alive, melting the flesh from her arms.

St. Stephen’s Catholic Church

Jakarta, Indonesia

8:40 p.m.

Kristina sat in a chair just in front of a modest wooden desk bearing the nameplate Father Ramon. “What is your name, my child?” he continued to ask. But in the last thirty minutes since she arrived, Kristina had been too scared to answer him.

“Father, I’m terrified.”

“Yes, I can see that, but if you want the church’s help, you have to trust us enough to give us your name.”

The priest’s black eyes reflected a trusting kindness. If she could not trust this man, then whom could she trust? Somehow, she knew that she could trust him. “Kristina. Kristina Wulandari.”

“And are you from here in Jakarta?”

“Yes, Father.”

“When you came to confession, you told me that someone important was going to die?”

“Yes, Father. And then I ran for fear of my life.”

“Who, Kristina?” Their eyes locked.

“The president, Father. I was referring to President Santos. And today that happened.”

“Yes.” Father Ramon stood and ran his hand through his hair and exhaled. “We all mourn for our president. And can you tell me, Kristina, how did you know this was going to happen?”

“General Perkasa had the president killed.”

“General Perkasa?”

“Yes, Father.”

“And just how do you know this?”

“Because…” She looked down. A sudden embarrassment overcame her.

“Because what?”

“Because I was his lover. I was in his house last night when I overheard the general and some of his staff members planning in the general’s study. They thought I was asleep. But I slipped down in the middle of the night, at the bottom of the stairway, and overheard them.”

“What were they saying?”

“They were drinking and laughing and talking about how they would make many, many millions of dollars, and then they started talking about a plan to kill President Santos.”

“Did they say how they were going to kill him?”

“All I could hear was something about the president’s personal physician was going to do it in an act of martyrdom.”

Father Ramon shook his head mournfully. “Do you remember anything else they said?”

“They mentioned Vice President Magadia,” she said.

“They are going to kill him too?”

“They said they were going to capture him at Istana Bogor, and hold him and try to force him to cooperate with them. I have a feeling that if he doesn’t cooperate, they will kill him.”

The priest sat back down. “Is there anything else that you think I need to know?”

“Yes, Father. They are going to buy nuclear bombs from Pakistan and slip them into the United States and use them on America. They are planning to kill President Williams in a nuclear blast.”

Father Ramon exhaled. Then he leaned over the desk and stared at her a few minutes, as if he was trying to decide whether to believe her. “Kristina, do you have any evidence of any of this?”

“Yes, Father.” She held up the memory stick. “I have this. It is all here.”

The White House

9:50 a.m.

Mack had left the majority of the National Security Council working in the Situation Room, while he returned to the Oval Office, all in an effort to preserve some semblance of normalcy in the developing international crisis.

He had brought with him his two most trusted, yet most likely to clash Cabinet members, the secretaries of state and defense.

The secretary of state was pacing back and forth across the back of the Oval Office, arguing, as usual, against a point just made by the secretary of defense. “With all due respect to Secretary Lopez’s call to drastically beef up our forces in the region, Mr. President, I would urge caution. Our navy is already providing tanker escorts. While it’s true that we may need to move more forces in, I’m concerned about international reaction to a Persian Gulf-style buildup.”

“But, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense shot back, “they’ve just tested a nuclear device in the Halmahera Sea. One of our ships has been taken out. We’ve lost who-knows-how-many men. That’s an act of war, Mr. President. We need more carrier groups in the region.”

The secretary of defense crossed his arms. “Mr. President, we all should be outraged, and we are outraged about the fact that they tested that device, but I disagree with my colleague on whether that is an act of war. Technically, I don’t think we can say it’s an act of war unless we can show that they intended to harm our ship. If you want to get right down to it, they’ve got a stronger argument that we committed an act of war against them by our operation against Merdeka Palace.”

A buzzing from the speaker phone on the president’s desk stopped Secretary Mauney in his tracks. “Mr. President!” A panicked sound from the president’s secretary, Gayle Staff. “The national security advisor and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs are here, sir. They say it’s an emergency.”

Mack’s stomach sank immediately. “Send them in, Gayle.”

Secret Service officers flung open the doors leading into the Oval Office, and Cynthia Hewitt and Admiral Roscoe Jones came running in. Their faces signaled disaster before Cyndi Hewitt spoke.

“It’s Philadelphia, Mr. President,” Hewitt said.

“What about Philadelphia?”

“A bomb.” The national security advisor broke into tears, crying like a baby.

“What?” Mack stood, his forehead suddenly clammy.

Admiral Jones took over for Hewitt. “I’m afraid it’s nuclear, Mr. President.”

“No. No! Please!” Mack wanted to heave, to vomit. A nuclear attack on American soil! He had to calm himself. He was the president. “Talk to me, Admiral. What happened? How bad?”

“Bad, sir. Looks like an explosion in the heart of the city. Relatively small nuclear device. Seismic indicators showing about one kiloton. That’s what we call a suitcase bomb. Still, this dwarfs the magnitude of 9/11.”

“Barry.” Mack nodded to the senior Secret Service officer on the presidential detail. “Flip on CNN.”

“Yes, sir.”

Images of firefighters, sirens, smoke, men, women, and children screaming-all flashed on the screen. The voice of the CNN anchor undergirded it all.

“This is Tom Miller. Again, this breaking story from Philadelphia. Tragedy. Horror.” The venerable newscaster’s voice began choking. He paused, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, and recovered. “It…appears that a large bomb, believed to be a nuclear device, has exploded in the downtown area of Philadelphia.

“There is no word from the White House or the Pentagon as of yet, but we have bone-chilling film, shot from cell phone cameras outside the city, of a blast going into the sky like a mushroom cloud. Just look…”

The screen showed a blinding burst above Philadelphia, followed by a mammoth mushroom cloud rising over the city.

“This video was taken about ten minutes ago,” Tom Miller said.

Mack stood silent. Cyndi Hewitt had restrained herself, and was wiping her running mascara with a handkerchief provided by the secretary of defense, who was standing beside her with one arm around her.

By this point, the president’s personal secretary, Gayle Staff, had come into the Oval Office and was watching with the others. “Gayle, get Arnie on the line.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Gayle stepped out as Tom Miller continued to speak. “Again, we have no official word yet on whether this…this mammoth explosion in Philadelphia was nuclear. But we are hearing preliminary reports from firefighters attempting to reach the scene that there are increased radiation levels in the downtown area. The intense heat, even a mile from the center, is said to be so great that firefighters cannot move in at this point.”

The telephone on the president’s desk buzzed. “Mr. President, your press secretary is on the line.”

“Thanks.” Mack picked up the phone. “Arnie, you watching the networks? Okay, I want a written statement from the White House immediately reassuring the American public of the following:

“First, that our nation has been attacked, and that the United States military will respond swiftly and appropriately.

“Second, inform the nation that the president and the National Security Council are meeting at this time to further coordinate our response.

“Third, the president will address the nation sometime later today, once we have had a chance to better assess this situation.

“Fourth, until we can assess the full extent of the damage and threat, instruct the American public to please cooperate fully with all local, state, and federal authorities. Let the people know that these officers’ main concern during the next few hours and days to come will be their safety.

“Finally, I am declaring that this day shall be a day of prayer, and for the next seven days want to ask that Americans be in fervent prayer for me, for the armed forces, for the congress, and for all national leadership. Tell them we seek to provide protection for the American people, and will seek to bring justice to the perpetrator of this crime.” He looked back at the plasma screen. “That should do it. Get it out to all major media outlets. Now.”

He nodded at one of the Secret Service agents. “Barry, mute that. We’ve got work to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Admiral Jones.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need a quick briefing on the Pentagon’s contingency plans in the event of a nuclear attack on an American city. Stat.”

“Sir, I can do that. We have contingency plans for almost every scenario, from a suitcase nuclear bomb, which this appears to be, to an allout ICBM attack. But may I make a suggestion, sir?”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Sir, we need to mobilize the National Guard immediately into Philadelphia to maintain order and evacuate the population.”

“Evacuate? Where to?”

“New York. Northern Virginia. Baltimore. And pray that none of those areas gets hit.”

“Okay,” Mack said. “Order full mobilization of all National Guard units. And I want all available naval and marine forces in the Western Pacific and the Eastern Indian Ocean bearing down on Indonesia-”

“But, Mr. President,” the secretary of state tried interrupting.

Mack raised his hand. The secretary of state shut up. “Now. My gut tells me that we know who’s behind this. And we’re gonna find him, and we’re gonna take him out.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

Residence of General Perkasa

Jakarta, Indonesia

8:55 p.m.

Cheers erupted at the sight pouring onto the plasma screen from half a world away.

“We have done it! We have done it!” Colonel Croon was saying, as the officers were pouring themselves drinks, whooping it up, and clanging their glasses in ecstasy.

“You are a genius, General!”

“America has never been hit like this! We shall control the world!” another officer shouted. “No one has ever so devastated America!”

The general himself was standing in front of his desk, laughing with glee and accepting hugs, handshakes, and congratulations from the whiskey-swilling officers.

Captain Taplus, who had just arrived from Gag Island, stood in the corner of the room and forced a smile on his face.

Indeed, Taplus thought, it was a remarkable sight. But up until just a little while ago, the shot shown on television sets all over the world had surely been the mushroom cloud rising over Gag Island. His baby.

Couldn’t they have waited just a few more days? Why not at least let the effect of Gag Island set in more?

“Can you believe this, Taplus?” One of them slapped him on the back.

“Taplus, my boy. Have a drink,” said another officer, thrusting a glass of liquor into his hand.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Not this soon. Not this fast. The test bomb at Gag was his. Gag Island was his operation. He had overseen it and he had brought Indonesia into the nuclear age. They were supposed to have promoted him at the airport.

Why had the general acted so impetuously?

Now it was as if Gag Island was of no consequence, as if they were clouding out his rightful place as a founding father of the new Islamic Republic.

This could not stand. He had to do something. He had to think of something.

“General,” he said. No response. The general’s guffawing with Colonel Croon drowned everything else out. “General!”

Perkasa looked over. “Taplus. You wanted to say something.”

“It seems to me, sir, respectfully, that if we are to fully capitalize on the events of Gag Island and Philadelphia, that another statement to the world, and particularly to the Americans, would be in order almost immediately.”

The general raised an eyebrow, almost curiously. “Captain, I have already made a live international television address while you were in transit back here. We laid out our demands for the withdrawal of international recognition of the Jewish state. And we showed video clips of the explosion at Gag Island. But Gag Island was only the beginning of this. Gag Island is over now, and we’ve quickly moved on to more advanced stages of the operation.”

The words were a punch to Hassan’s stomach. “But…”

“But what are you suggesting, Captain?” The general took a sip of whiskey. “That I show the video again of Gag Island?” Another sip of whiskey. “Excellent work out there, by the way.” He looked at Colonel Croon. “Colonel, do remind me to put Captain Taplus in for a promotion for his excellent work.”

“Yes, General.”

“But, General,” Hassan said. He could not leave it at that. “Based on what we accomplished at Gag Island, we have not brought America to her knees. Now that we have struck her, she is weak. Her people are weak anyway. America stands for nothing anymore. Her people are into their iPods and videogames and celebrity worship. They are becoming a weak, socialist, godless society like France. Perhaps you should go back on television now and demand capitulation on the issue of Israel. Strike now, General. Let them know that there will be more Philadelphias if the United Nations does not withdraw recognition of Israel.”

The look on the general’s face reflected a mood shift from celebratory to pensive. He took a sip of liquor and scratched his chin.

“You know, perhaps young Taplus is onto something,” he said. “I sort of like the idea of keeping up the pressure. Colonel Croon,” Perkasa looked at his chief of staff.

“Yes, sir.”

“How soon can we be back on the air?”

“A matter of minutes, sir.”

“Excellent. Let’s prepare a statement along the lines of what Taplus has suggested. Then let’s go back on the air immediately and keep the pressure up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“After that, let’s get Taplus promoted to major.”

Only major?

“The young man is showing some promise.”

St. Stephen’s Catholic Church

Jakarta, Indonesia

9:00 p.m.

She was trying to fight the tears. But somehow, the tears seemed to cleanse her soul. And the more she cried, the better she felt. “I’m sorry, Father,” Kristina said, “I just feel so dirty for what I did. But I was overcome by the power, by the trappings of it all. I feel like I sold myself.”

“It is all right, my daughter,” he said, passing her a box of tissues. “It is all right to cry. You know, God cries. And more importantly than that, Jesus died for the sinner. He is still in the business of redeeming sinners. He washes all our sins white as snow, if we repent from our sins and embrace him as our Lord, and go and sin no more.”

The priest’s words brought on another torrent of tears. “I do, Father, I do repent. I do accept Jesus.” Her words were cathartic. A warm sensation flooded her body. Somehow, Kristina knew she had been found.

A knock on the door. It was Sister Marguerita. A sudden terseness was in her voice. A look of anguish on her face. “Forgive me for interrupting, Father, but there is something I think you should know.”

“What is it, Marguerita?”

“The television is reporting that a nuclear bomb has exploded in America.”

“Oh, no!” Kristina’s heart sank again. “It’s part of their plan. It’s on the memory stick.”

“Where in America?” Father Ramon asked.

“Philadelphia.”

The priest turned on the television set in his office. CNN was showing a blinding flash in the midst of a city skyline, and then, rapidly, a great mushroom cloud rising.

The sight brought a sudden rush of sadness.

“Heavenly Father,” Father Ramon prayed aloud, “please be with the people of Philadelphia and with the citizens of America. Bring supernatural comfort to the families being torn apart by this act of evil. In the name of Jesus. Amen.”

Kristina wanted to cry again. “I feel like this is my fault. If only I’d come forward sooner.”

“How could you have come forward any sooner?” Father Ramon asked. “You came as quickly as you could. You came; that’s what important.” He paused. “And I also think it’s important for us to have a look at that memory stick.”

“Certainly.” She handed it over to him, but could not take her eyes off the television. And with the sight of men, women, and children running, panicked, in the streets away from the advancing mushroom cloud, the tears of sadness began to flow.

Residence of General Perkasa

9:05 p.m.

Finally, Hassan thought, he was getting this outrageous impetuousness under control. Only he, the general, Colonel Croon, and the television crews were in the study. Good. Face time with the general at yet another transformational moment in history.

“Do you have the draft of my statement, Taplus?” General Perkasa asked, as one of the TV crew members powdered him with additional makeup.

“I am putting the finishing touches on it now, General.”

“Very well, boy,” Perkasa said. “I want to see it and approve it before we go on air. If I am not satisfied with it, we do not go on air until I am satisfied. Is that understood?”

“Yes, General,” came the reply in unison from the television technicians in the room.

As the powder session continued, Hassan hammered the keyboard furiously. Again, he had thrust himself into history-as a military pioneer, and now as a speechwriter for one of the most important broadcasts in the history of the world.

The statement was crucial. It would need to be worded so that Perkasa could take indirect responsibility for the Philadelphia attack, without directly admitting it. The object would be to turn a panicked American public against its government-to make it clear that withdrawal of support of Israel was a small price to pay to ensure that no more American cities met the same fate as Philadelphia.

Chills again befell him as he realized that Allah was, at this moment, allowing him to be instrumental in the unfolding of history.

He smiled, and continued to type. We understand that a tragedy has fallen upon America. This has been a terrible fate that is beyond our control…

St. Stephen’s Catholic Church

9:10 p.m.

With Kristina looking over his shoulder, Father Ramon plugged the memory stick into his computer and opened the document in Microsoft Word.

“There, that’s it,” Kristina said, as Father Ramon scanned in amazement the words before his eyes.

THE MALACCA PLAN

A DETAILED PLAN BY THE STRATEGIC ALLIANCE

FOR

THE TRANSITION OF STATEHOOD

From THE REPUBLIC OF INDONESIA

To THE ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF INDONESIA

TOP SECRET

“Do a search using the word assassination,” Kristina said.

Father Ramon simultaneously pressed the control and f keys, and typed assassination.

The cursor instantly jumped, and Father Ramon found himself reading the plans for Santos’ assassination.

“Unbelievable,” Father Ramon said.

“I told you so, Father.”

Slowly, the priest carefully reread each and every word of the section. Then, instinctively, as if someone took control of his hands, he again held down the control and the f buttons.

He typed the word Philadelphia.

Instant results.

Strategic Strikes Against American Cities: With the anticipated acquisition of a limited number of battlefield-caliber nuclear weapons, the Strategic Alliance recognizes that, to the extent that the use of weapons may be employed to advance the cause of the Great Faith, the deployment and potential use of such weapons must be selective and strategic.

Operation Decapitate: To this extent, and to accomplish the goal of geostrategic positioning and leverage against the United States, the nation which, among all nations, has provided the bulk of international support to the rogue state of Israel, Operation Trident shall be commissioned to surreptitiously smuggle battlefield-caliber nuclear weapons into the USA.

Under the Operation, the weapons shall be transported to eastern Mexico, to the port of Tampico, just south of the US border. From there, they will be transported by ship at night to a point five miles off the US coastline, north of Brownsville, Texas, where they will be offloaded, along with conventional explosives, onto small craft and transported to the United States shoreline. Weapons shall be transported and stored in crates at a prearranged location in a warehouse in Brownsville, Texas, identified as the Old Port Isabel Warehouse.

From Brownsville, they will be transported separately by U-Haul trucks to three cities for deployment and use, as designated below.

Target City 1-Philadelphia. Selected for its historical significance as the birthplace of the American government…

His heart pounding, Father Ramon stopped. He reread the passage.

…Strike to occur when ordered by driving truck into area surrounding Penn Square at the heart of the city and detonating. The Council has also determined that as an economically deprived city in the liberal northeastern part of the country, it is believed that a strike in this geographic region would more quickly bring pressure against the pro-Israeli administration from the more liberal, pro-Palestinian northeast, as opposed to the more conservative south, which is populated by more so-called “Bible-believing Christians,” who offer the greatest support for Israel in America.

Target City 2-San Francisco. Selected for its strategic location as a centrally located city on America’s west coast, San Francisco is also a liberal hub in the United States, and is the nation’s de facto headquarters for the godless homosexual movement. The strike, also by truck carrying materials deported in the same shipment, would occur near the base of the famed Golden Gate Bridge, with the detonation to occur close enough to the bridge to vaporize a portion of it.

“San Francisco’s next,” Father Ramon said.

Kristina moaned softly.

Like Philadelphia, San Francisco is also selected for the generally liberal philosophy of its population, again on the theory that the surviving electorate, in the wake of a strike, would bring considerable pressure upon the American administration to abandon its anachronistic and pro-Zionist support for Israel. As an additional incentive for this target, the city would suffer punishment for its open embrace of godless homosexuality.

Target City 3-Washington. Selected for its strategic location as the American capital city, a nuclear attack upon Washington will be employed as a third option, only in the event that the American government has failed to capitulate to Strategic Alliance demands by refusing to withdraw support for Israel and by failing to lead the reversal of United Nations resolutions recognizing Israel.

Although Pennsylvania Avenue is and has been blocked off in front of the White House for a number of years, Constitution Avenue, which borders the South Lawn, has remained open.

Fear swept Father Ramon’s body. He closed his eyes. The words of the great apostle in chapter 8 of Romans flooded his spirit. For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.”

The fear left. The priest opened his eyes and looked up. “Abba. Father. Tell me what to do.”

The voice was still, yet small. And it spoke into his soul. Call the Monsignor. Ask for my airplane. Fly to Singapore. Go to the United States embassy there.

“Yes, Father.” The priest instinctively pressed the speed dial to the Monsignor’s residence.

Dial tone. Rings. “Hello.”

“Monsignor, this is Father Ramon.”

“Are you all right, Ramon?”

“Yes, Monsignor. I’m sorry to interrupt you, but is the church’s airplane available?”

“Yes. It’s in our hangar at our private airfield south of the city.”

Ramon felt himself exhale deeply. “Monsignor, I need to meet with you now. It is an emergency.”

“What is it, Ramon?”

“I need to take the church plane to Singapore, Monsignor.”

A pause. “I think the pilot has a flight scheduled in a couple of days. I’m sure we can make room for you.”

Ramon rubbed his head. “Monsignor, I need the plane now.”

“Now?”

“Yes, sir. Tonight.”

Silence.

“Could you meet me at our airstrip, Monsignor?”

“Can’t you tell me what is going on?”

“No, sir. Not on the phone. I can say that it is a matter of life and death.”

Another pause. “Well, let me remind you that the plane is owned and operated by the Holy See for diplomatic purposes. The Vatican lets the Indonesian church use it, of course. But I would have to check with the nuncio to get permission to use it. He’s probably asleep at the embassy. You want me to wake the nuncio?”

Of course. Why had he not thought of it earlier? The nuncio was the Holy See’s ambassador, representing his Holiness the Pope in nations as his ambassador. The nuncio and his representatives could travel as they pleased under the protections of diplomatic immunity. But would they?

“Yes, Monsignor. I’m afraid that it is an urgent matter. Please tell the nuncio that he has two requests for asylum and protection by the Holy See.”

There was a silence. Had he lost connection?

“Two requests?” The Monsignor spoke up.

“Yes, Father. Two requests.”

“And may I ask from whom, so that I can at least give the nuncio an idea of what to expect?”

Was it wise even to respond? Suppose they were listening. Surely not. Trust God in the moment. “Please tell the nuncio that one of the requests is from me.”

More silence. “From you, Ramon?”

“Yes, Father. I will explain on the plane. The other is from one whose life may be in danger for political reasons. I am asking, as a personal favor, that we be transferred to the embassy in Singapore for safety and for matters of extreme and urgent importance to the world.”

More silence. “Say no more,” the Monsignor said. “All right. I’ve known you for a long time, Ramon. I’ll make the call and see what I can do. Meet me at our airstrip in one hour, unless you hear from me.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Ramon hung up the phone. “Have you ever flown in an airplane, Kristina?”

“No, Father.”

“Well, you’re going to get your chance.” Her eyes widened. “Let me shut the computer down and get this memory stick, and then we’re going for a ride.”