The Malacca Conspiracy

Chapter 19

Bogor, Indonesia

12:05 a.m.

Diane had gotten into pretty good physical shape during her tour in Naples. She had even trained for and run a marathon, having finished the grueling twenty-six miler in just under five hours. Still, she was grateful for the five-minute water break.

And while she was an avid runner, this was no marathon course. The SEALs pushed along the craggy, mountainous terrain at a pretty rapid clip. The muscles she was exercising were muscles she had not noticed in quite some time. Already, her calves, thighs, and buttocks were sore from the rapid hike up and down the uneven path.

On the road below them, perhaps three quarters of a mile downrange at a sloping angle, only an occasional set of headlights had come and then gone. And the noise from the cars, trucks, or whatever was moving along the road, was barely audible from here.

Another set of headlights zoomed past just below their position. The headlights gave way to taillights in the distance, and then, nothing.

She looked over at Zack, whose visage was now visible to her in the dark, her eyes now dilated and more accustomed to seeing under the starlight. He was following the most recent vehicle sighting with night-vision binoculars, his direction pointing toward the disappearing taillights.

Silence again. The inactivity had been eerie. No helicopters overhead. No searchlights. Where were they? It was as if the Indonesians were not even aware of their presence.

Zack dropped the binoculars and rested his hand on her shoulder. His touch made her want to melt, now as never before. Why all the wasted time? Why all the years gone by?

Was the navy his real mistress? Did he love the sea more than he loved her? Did he really love her?

“You okay?” he whispered. And the sound of his voice weakened her knees more than the jagged terrain. If he were to ask her to marry him, she would do it on the spot.

“You guys okay?” Captain Kelly approached out of the dark and was walking down his line of men. Zack dropped his hand off her shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” she lied. Except for the fact that I’m sore, scared, and horribly lovesick. Could you perform a marriage ceremony?

“Doing fine, Captain,” Zack said. “But what’s up with all this inactivity? I thought they’d be on us like white on rice by now.” Zack spoke with a supreme confidence in his voice, as if he enjoyed playing his newfound role as a Navy SEAL, more so than his real-life role of a Navy JAG.

“Good question, Zack. Feels like the calm before the storm, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, it does.”

“Not that I’m complaining,” Noble said. “I’ll bet they think they shot us out of the sky, are having a celebratory drink or twenty, and will look for the wreckage and our bodies in the morning.”

“Hope you’re right, Skipper,” Zack said. “Anything else from the Reagan?”

“Not since our last communication. Our orders are to proceed in this direction, away from the wreckage, hide from the enemy, and wait for further instructions.”

“Got it,” Zack said.

“Anyway,” Noble said, “gotta keep moving. Chug down some more water and be prepared to move out in about two minutes.”

“Aye, sir,” Zack and Diane said together.

The White House

1:45 p.m.

Thank you, John,” Mack was saying to the prime minister of the United Kingdom, John Suddath. “You are a good friend, and Britain is and always will be America’s best friend. Yes, yes…Thank you for your kind offer of assistance. I will pass that on to all Americans and to the citizens of Philadelphia…Yes, the clock is ticking. We have less than three more hours, but as of now we don’t know if that’s a bluff or if he has a specific target in mind. You will be the first call I make when we know something…Thank you. Good-bye.”

The president hung up the phone and looked across the desk in the Oval Office at his chief of staff.

“Okay, Arnie. What else do we have before we head back down to the Situation Room?”

“Well, you’ve spoken with the prime ministers of Japan, Germany, Canada, and Great Britain, along with the presidents of France and Russia. So we’ve taken care of our closest allies, along with Russia. Let’s see…” Arnie’s face was contorted in an apprehensive twist.

“What is it, Arnie?”

“One other thing.”

“What?”

“You’re getting pressure to make an announcement again.”

“An announcement of what sort?”

“Well, this comes from a number of anti-Israeli groups in New York, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. Also a number of key Democrats in Congress.”

“What do they want me to say?”

“It varies. But something to the effect that you are leaning toward a UN Resolution on Israel…”

Mack looked over at one of the Secret Service agents. “Bob, flick on CNN, will ya?”

“Yes, sir.”

The agent complied, and a moment later, the image of America’s most venerable and respected anchorman, Tom Miller, was on the plasma screen in the Oval Office.

“This is Tom Miller at the White House.” The bespectacled Miller, distinguished in his wire-rimmed glasses, was looking down at his watch. “It’s now one forty-seven Washington time, less than three hours before the deadline imposed on President Williams by the Indonesian madman, General Suparman Perkasa.”

Miller looked back up at the camera, the stately white columns of the North Portico in the background behind him. “Still no word from the White House other than this statement issued by White House Press Secretary Arnie Brubaker.” Miller held the statement up. “‘The threatening demands of General Perkasa are dangerous and irresponsible. This president and this nation will not give in to blackmail.’”

“Good statement, Arnie,” Mack said.

“Thank you, sir.”

Miller continued. “Meanwhile, panic reigns in many of America’s largest cities. In Atlanta, Dallas, New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago, outbound interstates are jammed with people trying desperately to get out of town, for fear that their city could, in just a few short hours, be facing Philadelphia’s fate.

“Meanwhile, pressure is growing from members of Congress for the president to take some sort of action. Representative Charlie Hank of Massachusetts spoke to reporters just a few minutes ago on Capitol Hill.”

The image switched to that of a double-chinned, portly congressman, the ultra-liberal Charlie Hank of Massachusetts, who was standing in front of a battery of microphones, just in front of his belly, which sufficiently protruded in his white shirt so that buttoning his gray jacket would have been an impossibility.

“The president must act now,” Hank said.

“And do what, Charlie?” Mack snapped at the television.

Hank looked down over his horn-rimmed glasses. “President Williams must remember that his first obligation is to protect Americans. That means he should do or say anything it takes to avoid another nuclear bomb going off in an American city.”

“Yellow-bellied liberal,” Mack snapped again.

Hank droned on. “The president must remember that he is the president of the United States of America. He is not the president of Israel. And frankly, this administration’s pro-Israeli policies have been at least partially responsible for getting us where we are today.”

“Turn it off, Bob.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” The Secret Service agent complied.

Arnie was glancing at a legal pad. “The attorney general called.”

“What’d he want?”

“Well, it seems as if you are about to be sued by both the ACLU and the Democratic National Committee.”

“What for?”

“Your address to the nation. You declared this as a week of prayer. The ACLU says it’s an issue of the separation of church and state, and the DNC says it’s offensive to their Muslim and atheist constituents, given your known evangelical background.”

“So what? I’ve got maybe three hours before some idiot is hinting that we’re gonna get hit with another nuclear bomb! Why are we even talking about this?”

“Well, the attorney general has prepared a supplemental statement for your signature which is also inclusive of atheists and Muslims. He feels this might head off the lawsuit. He says you may wish to sign it just to avoid dividing the nation with a lawsuit at this crucial time.” Mack raised his eyebrow at Arnie, who finished his thoughts. “To bring the entire nation together, Mr. President.” Arnie slid the prepared statement onto Mack’s desk.

The president picked it up, glanced at it briefly, then shook his head. “Tell the attorney general that I’m surprised at him, and that hell will freeze over before I sign politically correct legal gobbledygook.”

“But…”

“And tell the ACLU and the DNC to go pound sand. Our country has just been hit with a nuclear weapon. If we’re not united now, we never will be. Get that stuff out of here. I don’t have time for this garbage.”

“Yes, sir.”

The intercom buzzer rang. Gayle Staff’s frantic-sounding voice was on it. “Mr. President, the secretary of state, the national security advisor, the secretary of defense, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs are all here in the Situation Room. It’s urgent.”

“Send ’em in, Gayle.” Mack’s stomach dropped through the floor. He locked eyes with Arnie Brubaker. “Not another attack.”

A Secret Service agent opened the door from the Oval Office, and the secretary of state led the frantic quartet into the room. “Possible major breakthrough, Mr. President!” Secretary of State Mauney announced, panting as if he had just sprinted a hundred yards.

“What’s going on?”

“We got an electronic file from our embassy in Singapore. Reliable intelligence from Indonesia shows that Perkasa is responsible for the attack on Philly and that he’s planning to hit San Francisco and Washington.”

“Is that right?” He looked at his national security advisor.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Cyndi Hewitt said.

“When? How?”

“Mr. President,” Hewitt said, “here’s what we know. The computer file that we now have is detailed, laying out targets and means of attack. They call it ‘Operation Decapitate.’ We’ve been able to determine that the nuclear materials were brought into a warehouse in Brownsville, Texas. We’ve gotten the warehouse records and seen photographs of three U-Haul trucks that carted the materials off. We’ve even gotten license plate numbers for the trucks. We think the trucks are headed to Philadelphia, San Francisco, and Washington.”

“Where next?”

“They’ve laid that out, sir,” Hewitt continued. “Philly was first. Then San Francisco. Then Washington.”

“When?”

“If their demands for derecognizing Israel aren’t met, they detonate.”

Mack raised a fist. “We’ve gotta find those trucks.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President. We’re looking for two trucks now. We’ve already alerted police departments in San Francisco and DC, along with the California Highway Patrol, and the Virginia and Maryland State police.”

“Any idea where they’re planning to strike in the cities?”

“Yes, sir. In Philly, it was Penn Square. And that’s exactly what happened. In San Francisco, the Golden Gate Bridge. In Washington, it’s the Mall area. Out here in front of the White House on Constitution Avenue.” The national security advisor pointed out the window toward the Washington Monument. “The plan is to drive the trucks to those locations and detonate.”

Mack rotated his leather chair away from his advisors and gazed out the bulletproof palladium window, across the South Lawn, across the green grass leading to the Ellipse. From here, he could see cars passing from right to left along Constitution Avenue, just in front of the Washington Monument, heading in the direction of the US Capitol building. He stood from his chair and crossed his arms.

“I need every one of you.” He pivoted around, eyeing them all. “But I don’t need you here. We can communicate by secure radio. I’m not moving. But all of you…I suggest you head out to Andrews and get on a plane. That’s why God created computers and high-tech communications equipment.”

They looked at one another, and the silence was punctuated only by the tick tock of the grandfather clock located in the corner of the Oval Office.

“I’m staying, Mr. President,” Cyndi Hewitt said.

“You’re my commander in chief, sir,” Admiral Jones said. “I will not abandon my post here.”

“We’re with you, sir,” they all said.

“I’m eternally grateful,” he said. He felt his voice starting to crack. “Your nation is grateful.” Pull yourself together, Mack. You’re the commander in chief of the US military! “Admiral Jones.” He looked at the four-star seadog who was the nation’s top military officer. “Does the military have a recommendation?”

“Yes, we do, Mr. President. But there’s one other thing you need to know before we present you a recommendation, sir.”

“Let’s hear it. Time’s running out.”

“Our source says that Indonesian Vice President Magadia is being held captive at one of the presidential palaces in Indonesia, located near the city of Bogor.”

“Is this intelligence accurate?”

“Dunno, sir. It’s the best we’ve got.”

“Recommendation?”

“Our first priority is protection of these American cities.”

“Agreed, Admiral.”

“That means we’ve gotta find these trucks. So first thing we do is shut down all air traffic in the area over San Francisco, as we’ve done with Washington.”

“Okay, done,” Mack said.

“And in addition to alerting all law enforcement authorities in both these metro areas, the military provides increased air cover in the way of camera-equipped drones to keep an eye on the roads. We also need to get our F-16s crisscrossing these cities at high altitudes, and we need three Apache helicopters armed with air-to-surface missiles hovering on station in each city.”

Mack felt himself raise an eyebrow. “Air-to-ground missiles? Armed over an American city?”

“Part of the problem, Mr. President, is this: we’ve got two U-Hauls driving around somewhere with nuclear bombs inside. What happens if a police officer tries pulling the truck over? Or suppose we stop ’em in a roadblock?”

Mack nervously ran his hand through his hair. “You’re saying he might blow the bomb prematurely.”

“Yes, sir,” the admiral said. “The danger is that the driver panics and hits the detonate button on the spot.”

“So you’re advocating taking him out by air.”

“Yes, sir, unless we can get a sniper on them and shoot them through the windshield.”

“I see.” Mack did not like it. An air-to-surface missile could kill innocent Americans who might be around it. But even that wasn’t the president’s greatest concern. “Doesn’t the explosion risk detonating the nuclear device?”

Smith was quick with his response. “Most small nukes are detonated by the fission process and not the fusion process. The fission process involves firing a fission bullet down a gun barrel into a nuclear core, which sets off the nuclear device. We believe the explosion would take out this gun-barrel assembly device, and wreck the bomb before it would detonate.”

A pause.

“Can you guarantee the ASM won’t set off the nukes?”

Another pause. “No sir, Mr. President. We cannot guarantee it. But we can pretty much guarantee that two cities are going to get hit by nukes anyway.”

That thought sank in. “Get the birds in the air.”

“Aye, sir. And one other recommendation.”

“Go.”

“This is your call, sir. But we can send a SEAL team in to try and pull Vice President Magadia out of Istana Bogor.”

Mack thought about that. He looked at his secretary of state. “Restore power in Indonesia to its status quo?”

“Yes, sir,” Secretary Mauney said. “Or at least prop up a credible opposition leader to this Perkasa nut until we can take Perkasa out.”

“Okay, Admiral. You have my authorization. Do what we need to do to pull Magadia out of there.”

“Aye, aye, Mr. President.”

Bogor, Indonesia

1:15 a.m.

Gentlemen,” Captain Noble announced in the dark of the night, once again seeming to forget that Diane was in the group. “Huddle around. We’ve got new orders.”

Like a football team in a huddle on offense, the black-faced SEALs gathered around their leader, who was at the far end of the group. Diane stepped into the huddle beside Zack, who at the moment seemed far more focused on Captain Noble than on her.

“The good news is that we’ve come to the end of our march. We stay put here, and in approximately thirty minutes, a couple of Seahawks from the Reagan will be here to pick us up.”

Some of the SEALs gave a thumbs-up into the night, as if relieved that a ride home was on the way. Diane breathed a sigh of relief.

“But we’re not going directly back to the Reagan.” This got the men’s attention. “The president has a job for us to do.” A quick pause. “Commander Colcernian?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re the naval attaché to Indonesia, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell these men who Muhammed Magadia is.”

“He’s the vice president of Indonesia, sir.”

“That is correct. And right now, we’ve got intel that the vice president is being held hostage against his will by gunmen loyal to this madman General Perkasa at the presidential palace in Bogor. That’s about ten minutes’ flight from here by chopper, if even that.

“The XO’s on his way right now with other members of the SEAL team. We’re going in, and we’re going to rescue the vice president and give him a ride to the USS Ronald Reagan.”

Cheering and whoops and hollers.

“We don’t have much planning time. The XO, however, is getting an intel briefing, and he will lead the other guys in the palace to pull the vice president out. Our job will be to secure the top of the building and the perimeters while our shipmates go in and pull the man out. Should be a piece of cake.”

The distant roar of a jet engine came from the direction of the sea. The roar grew louder. Then another.

“Gentlemen,” Noble announced, “the sound of freedom. Our guys are on the way. In a few minutes the only sound of jets that you will hear will be the sound of F-18s and F-22s from our carrier air wing. We will own the skies over this country, and we will have plenty of air cover for our operation. Any question?”

“Let’s go!” one of the SEALs shouted.

“Let’s do it, baby!” another said.

“Rock and roll!” Zack said, pumping his fist in the air.

Diane shook her head in the dark. The love of her life was becoming Rambo.

Beechcraft Bonanza Aircraft

Above the Virginia-Maryland border

2:30 p.m.

Salaam banked the plane to the left, almost directly toward the bright overhead sun. No point in flying any further to the north. Not now anyway.

The FAA had closed the airspace around Philadelphia, and word had come that all non-military traffic headed into Washington was being vectored away.

The airspace over the Potomac River was as close as he needed to go, he had decided. No need to arouse their suspicions, especially when there was no reason to do so.

Still, as the plane turned to the west, into the bright sun, Salaam craned his neck to the right, in the direction of Philadelphia, hoping, somehow, to see the glorious mushroom cloud on the horizon.

But from here, there was nothing but a haze just over the earth’s curvature in the distance.

Still, the thought of what had happened brought shivers all over his body. And despite this most glorious day for Islam, Salaam felt both envy and resentment. He had trained for this day too. He had been ready. They had told him to be ready, to be prepared to use his plane on a moment’s notice. He was prepared for martyrdom.

Yet the honor for this mission had been bestowed on others. But who was he to question Allah? He had been prepared to give his all. What more could he give?

He circled the plane further to the left, now headed to the south. The buildings of the small city of Winchester were coming into sight. The small, private airstrip would be off somewhere to the right.

Salaam scanned the landscape to the right of the town. A red and white water tower appeared in the distance. The runway would be just across the road from there.

A slight push of the yoke to the right brought the nose of the Beechcraft in line with the water tower.

In a few minutes, he would be on the ground. From there, he would rush home to watch more live feed coverage from Philadelphia, then fall to his knees and pray that his phone would ring.

F/A-18 Super Hornet (“Hornet 1”)

Over Philadelphia

2:35 p.m.

Have mercy on us!” These were the only words Lieutenant Commander Billy Belk could muster as he looked out the cockpit of the F/A-18 Super Hornet and saw it for the first time.

The mushroom was rising, towering, now perhaps five miles into the sky, over the City of Brotherly Love. Belk was a veteran combat pilot with nerves of steel. The veteran naval aviator had even seen combat over Kosovo, outdueling a Russian MIG-27 before shooting it down and then flying back to the USS Nimitz on patrol in the Adriatic.

The steel nerve of an ace fighter pilot was unflappable. At least that was the theory. And that was how Commander Belk had seen himself.

Until now.

Hiroshima had come to America.

He had once dated a girl from Philly. Was she down there? Somewhere? Had she been vaporized?

An unnatural silence pervaded the cockpit as the F/A-18 made a broad, swooping circle. Lieutenant Commander Billy Belk, USN, had turned to a teary mush in his own cockpit. Thank God no one was looking, he thought, except God himself, who surely understood.

“Hornet 1, Pax River Control.”

Pull yourself together, Commander. “Hornet 1. Go ahead, Pax River.”

“Hornet, turn to course two-three-two degrees and contact Reagan Control. We need you over the capital for a few minutes until we can get your relief in the air. Then be prepared to return to base, refuel, and get back in the air. It’s going to be a long evening, Commander.”

“Pax River Control. Hornet 1. Roger that. Turning to course two-three-two degrees,” Riddle said, beginning a sweep to the south southwest. “I’m headed back to Washington, then back to base at your order for refueling.”

“Keep your eyes peeled, Hornet 1.”

“Hornet 1, roger that.”

Bogor, Indonesia

2:45 a.m.

The last Super Hornet from the Reagan had swooshed across the Indonesian skies about five minutes ago, leaving the quiet, confident assurance that the mighty, steel-clenched fist of the US Navy was steaming closer by the moment.

In this peaceful interlude, Diane was lying in the rocks along the ridge, in between Captain Noble and Zack. The SEALs had for the most part gone silent, and were now in a waiting mode.

The stirring beauty of the star-draped tropical sky, along with the occasional gentle touch of Zack’s hand on her back, made her forget that she was in the midst of a virtual war zone. Her fearlessness at the moment amazed her. Shot down in a foreign land, soon to be hunted by troops that could possibly kill them all.

Yet she had faced death before, when she had been kidnapped and held hostage in Mongolia two years before.

Tonight, her fear had vanished, at least temporarily, after the chopper went down. The fear might return, she knew. But for now, the fact that she was with Zack, the most self-confident man she had ever known, along with a team of rugged, handsome, and brave SEAL warriors, all brought a placid calm in the eye of the vicious storm surrounding them.

The faint sound of chopper blades in the barely audible distance began to pollute the serene darkness.

“I hear our ride,” Captain Noble commented, as the chopper’s roar grew louder.

“Thank God,” one of the SEALs said.

“Get ready to move out, baby!” said another.

“Rock and roll!” Zack said in the dark. And by the time Diane planted a flirtatious pat on the middle of his back, as if to remind him that he was not really a Navy SEAL but a Navy JAG, the black silhouettes of the two choppers were upon them, hovering perhaps a hundred yards down the ridge over a relatively flat surface on the slope.

“Night goggles on. Move out, men,” Captain Noble ordered. In an instant, the entire wave of SEALs was on its feet and instinctively rushing down the slope toward the roaring Seahawks.

“Come on, Diane.” Zack took her by the elbow. Peering through the eerie greenish glow thrown off by her night goggles, she rose to her feet, crouched, and ran in single file between Zack and Captain Noble toward the warm air blast of the helicopters.

Residence of General Perkasa

Indonesia

2:45 a.m.

The general was pacing back and forth behind his desk, arms crossed, with a look of satisfaction on his face. “How much longer does Mack Williams have?” he asked.

“Just a few more minutes,” Colonel Croon said. “We have already initiated our operation in San Francisco, just in case Williams does not cooperate.”

“What precisely does it mean that we have initiated our operation?”

“The driver has left his hotel and is driving toward the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Ahh,” Perkasa said smugly. “Captain Taplus, pour me another drink.”

“Yes, General,” Hassan said, trying to project a cheery spirit. Deep down, however, Hassan fumed. Too much repartee was taking place between the general and the colonel in the midst of a crucial operation, while he, the glorious architect and executor of Gag Island, one of the most significant events in Indonesian history, was relegated to staff bartender.

Hassan mixed the whiskey and handed it to the general. The general took it without so much as a thank you, and took a swig.

One of the secure telephones rang. Air Force Chief of Staff blinked on the caller ID. A chance to become involved again. Hassan grabbed it quickly. “General Perkasa’s office. Captain Taplus.”

“This is the chief of staff. I need to speak with the general.”

“He is detained at the moment. I will be happy to pass on any message to him.”

“Tell the general that we have US Navy jets swarming all over Jakarta!”

“Stand by, please.” Good. He was back in the game. “Excuse me, General. It is the air force chief of staff. He says American navy jets are over our skies here in Jakarta.”

Perkasa slammed his glass down. “Well, tell the general that I am already aware of the US Navy jets in our airspace. His orders are to get his planes in the air and shoot them down.”

“Yes, General,” Hassan said. “General, your orders from General Perkasa are to get our jets airborne and shoot down the Americans. Is that clear?”

“Tell General Perkasa that my commanders are reluctant to engage the Americans because we have no way of overriding their jamming.”

“Are you sure you want me to tell him that?”

“Tell him!”

“Excuse me, General,” Taplus said. “The chief of staff wishes to inform you that our pilots are reluctant to challenge the American navy.”

“What?” Perkasa screamed. “Give me the phone, Hassan.” He ripped the receiver from Taplus’ hand. “This is General Perkasa! On my orders, any pilot who refuses to fly will be shot! Is that clear?…I thought so!” Perkasa slammed the phone down. “That should take care of that.” He looked at Hassan.

“Taplus.”

“How can I help, General? Would you like for me to personally drive over to Jakarta Air Base to oversee the nation’s air defense?”

“Perhaps later. For now, I want you to arrange for another broadcast.” The general picked up his whiskey and downed the rest of it. “The Americans have upped the stakes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jakarta Air Base

2:48 a.m.

General Megawati Wahid, the chief of staff of the Indonesian Air Force, slammed the phone down. Perhaps this coup had not been such a great idea. War with America was imminent now, it appeared, and the general was in no mood to sacrifice every plane in his air force to the superior US Navy air wing from the carrier Reagan.

But Perkasa had issued his order. And Perkasa already had been powerful enough to take out the president and the vice president, and to launch a nuclear attack against America.

Wahid wrung his hands. He had no choice. At least not for now.

He picked up the microphone to speak to the two F-16 jets sitting on the runway in takeoff position.

“Falcon Leader. Jakarta Tower.”

“Falcon Leader.”

“This is General Wahid. Your orders are to take off and engage the American jets.”

“But, General…”

“This is an order from Perkasa himself. He has said that any pilot not flying will be shot.”

“Yes, General.”

“Falcon Leader and Falcon 2, you are clear for takeoff on Runways 1 and 3. Stay low and be safe.”

“Jakarta Tower. Falcon Leader. Roger that.”

“Jakarta Tower. Falcon 2. Roger that.”

Wahid put down the microphone and picked up a pair of binoculars. He aimed over to the far right of the twin runways, where two of his F-16s that he had commanded into the skies were still sitting. Through the binoculars, he could make out their silhouettes and could clearly see their running lights. One started rolling, and then the other.

They whizzed down the runway from right to left, a parallel tandem, and as they lifted into the sky, fire from the back of their twin rocket engines was clearly visible in the binoculars.

They had been airborne less than twenty seconds when chaos boomed over the air traffic control frequency. “Jakarta Control, Falcon Leader! I’ve got a bogie up my rear!”

“Jakarta Control, Falcon 2! I’ve got one too!”

General Wahid rushed to the microphone and grabbed it back from the air traffic controller and barked instructions. “Falcon Leader! Falcon 2! Split! Split!”

“Jakarta Tower! Falcon Leader! Missile in the air! On my tail! Closing fast!”

“Falcon 2! I’ve got one too!”

“Falcon Leader! Falcon 2!” Wahid yelled. “Fire chaff! Evasive maneuvers!”

A bright fireball lit the skies.

“He’s hit!” came over the radio from one of the planes.

A second fireball nearly turned night to day.

“Falcon Leader, Falcon 2! Come in. Come in! Falcon Leader. I say again. Falcon Leader, talk to me. That’s an order!”

Nothing.

Wahid was breathing heavily. He set the microphone down, still panting as the fireballs broke into long strings of light reaching downward, now looking like a pair of bright octopuses on the horizon.

“General.” He heard the voice of his aide but did not respond. “General,” the voice spoke again.

“What is it, Colonel?”

“Sir, we have two more F-16s in takeoff position. What are your orders, sir?”

Nothing. There was nothing he could say.

“Sir, shall the tower clear them for takeoff?”

His heart still pounding, Wahid exhaled again. “Tell them to stand down. I will not sacrifice our young men and our air force in an impossible situation.”

“But what shall we say if General Perkasa calls again?”

Wahid looked at his aide. “Tell him if he wants to shoot anybody, he can shoot me.”

The White House

3:59 p.m.

We’re running out of time, gentlemen,” Mack Williams said, checking his watch again, as he paced across the Oval Office. “Secretary Lewis?” He looked at the secretary for homeland security, who had just arrived back in Washington from a meeting in Portland. “We found those U-Hauls yet?”

“Still working on it, Mr. President.”

“We’ve got about twenty minutes max before San Francisco blows.” He checked his watch again. “Find those U-Hauls.”

“Look, Mr. President!” Cyndi Hewitt was pointing to the muted video screen in the corner of the Oval Office. “The idiot dictator is on the air again.”

“Sound.” Mack ordered, and a Secret Service agent complied.

“We are extremely disappointed at this time with the actions of the American administration.” The dictator’s voice contained a forceful anger. “Not only has there not yet been a response to our demands concerning the diplomatic derecognition of the criminal state of Israel, as the freedom-loving masses of the world have demanded, but also tonight, US Navy warplanes are at this very hour violating the sovereign, territorial airspace of the Islamic Republic of Indonesia.” The dictator slammed his fist onto his desk. “This must stop!” He held his arm up, as if glancing at his watch. “Your time is almost up, Mr. President. My patience is running out!”