The Malacca Conspiracy

Chapter 3

Singapore Changi International Airport

2:05 p.m.

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

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

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

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

Cheering erupted from the back of the plane.

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

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

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

The White House

2:06 a.m.

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

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

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

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

“Music to my ears, Bob.”

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

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

“Commander Gleason.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

“Scary,” Gleason said.

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

“Aye, Colonel.”

Hotel Al Nemer

Dammam, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

9:08 a.m.

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

“Excellent! What about in the straits?”

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

“Let me know when we hear about that.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

“Yes, sir. The council is assembled.”

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

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

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

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

“Be seated,” Farouq said. Twelve Arab billionaires, dressed in extravagant suits with traditional Arab white kaffiyehs on their heads, sat at his command. “Un hum del Allah!”

“Un hum del Allah!” they responded in unison.

“I am pleased to report to you that today…it has begun.”

Cheering and applause from the billionaires seated around the conference table.

Farouq called for silence. “Each of you has pledged a good portion of your fortune, now sequestered in a network of secret accounts around the world.” Several nodded in agreement. “Today, your financial support has launched phase one of our operation. On this day alone, the billions that we reaped from futures contracts from our strikes against the tankers off Singapore have doubled the five-billion-dollar investment that you collectively placed into our organization.”

More applause and cheering.

“Part of that money will purchase the weaponry to achieve our objective, which I will now reveal.” He nodded. His assistant flipped the switch on a projector, dimmed the lights, and tapped on a laptop computer. The screen lit up.

The Vision

AN ISLAMIC SUPERPOWER

The Council of Ishmael Plan for

World Dominance

“There is a nation awaiting us, gentlemen. A nation we shall rule, one that has already accepted the teachings of the Great Prophet. From it, we shall control the sea lanes of the world, and thus the world.” He nodded at his assistant.

“Gentlemen, I present to you, the next great Islamic superpower!”

A new image appeared on the screen.

“This, gentlemen, is Indonesia. It is the most populated Muslim nation on earth and fourth most-populated country in the world, behind China, India, and the US. Eighty percent of its population is Muslim, meaning that two hundred million Muslims live here.

“From Medan, on the island of Sumatra in the west, to Jayapura, on the island of New Guinea in the east, Indonesia stretches farther from east to west than even the Great Satan, the United States.

“Yet, despite its Muslim population, Indonesia cozies up to the United States and takes US military assistance.

“And no wonder America wants it. Indonesia is the most strategically located maritime nation in the world, controlling the Malaccan Straits, the Java Sea, the Timor Sea, and the Celebes Sea, all making up essentially the gateway from the Pacific and Indian Oceans.”

All eyes were transfixed on the map, as Farouq tapped at the various islands and waterways with a pointer. “Working with our Muslim brothers in the Indonesian military, we shall take this nation for Allah!”

“What plan has Allah given us for how we are to accomplish this takeover of Indonesia?” one of the moneymen asked.

Farouq wagged his finger in the air. “Insightful, my friend. I was just about to go into that. The nation of Indonesia consists of over seventeen thousand islands. Of those, six thousand are inhabited. But the key to controlling all of Indonesia is first to control one island and one only.” He nodded again at his assistant, and another map flashed up on the screen.

“This map gives a better picture of our targets. To the left”-he tapped a pointer against the screen-“we have the island of Sumatra. This island is roughly the size and shape of the American state of California.

“Sumatra would give us control of the most strategic choke point in the world for the flow of oil by freighter from the Indian Ocean to the Pacific.” He pointed to the Strait of Malacca, a funnel between Sumatra and the Malay Peninsula.

“But the key to toppling Sumatra and the other seventeen thousand islands of Indonesia is to assert control of this island.” He pointed to the island just to the right of Sumatra. “Java.”

He took a sip of water.

“Roughly the size and shape of the Caribbean island of Cuba, Java is the key to Indonesia. One hundred twenty million people live here. That’s half the population of the entire nation.” Another sip of water. “And the key to Java?” He tapped again at the map. “Jakarta. The capital city. Our plan is simplistically brilliant. We will launch a coup against the government from within. We will take control of the government, and we will use money raised from our tanker attacks to purchase weapons and transform Indonesia into an Islamic superpower.”

Farouq folded his arms and surveyed his council.

“What about President Santos?” a Kuwati named Sabir asked.

“What about Enrique Santos?” Farouq asked.

“Will we kill him?”

“We have forged a strategic alliance with powerful men in the Indonesian military. These men are our brothers in the faith. And their faith, unlike the bastardized lip service to Islam that was paid by those like the traitorous Benazir Bhutto and the current Indonesian president, is unadulterated.

“They will be rewarded for their courageous leadership in this endeavor, which we have called the Malaccan Agreement. These men will be in place to carry out our strategic objectives, including the problem of the Indonesian president.”

“What will become of Santos?” another council member asked.

Farouq lit another cigarette, then took a satisfying draw. “Santos calls himself Islamic. Yet he sleeps with the American dogs and their president, Mack Williams.” He inhaled again and squinted his eyes. “Tell me, brother. What sayeth the Koran about the fate of infidels?”

The nicotine saturated his bloodstream, giving him an exhilarating kick, more potent and satisfying than the bland cigar he had taken from General Suparman Perkasa during their first meeting over a year ago. No one made cigarettes like the dog Americans.

“The Koran calls for death to all infidels.”

Farouq stuffed the cigarette into an ashtray. “And what are Williams and Santos?”

Even in the dimmed lighting, Sabir’s black eyes sparkled.

“They are infidels.”

Farouq nodded. “Then you have answered your own question, my friend.”

“Will the Americans not send their navy and marines to interfere? Do not they consider these sea lanes strategic to their interests?”

“Let’s say, shall we, that we have planned some distractions for the Americans.”