The Malacca Conspiracy

Chapter 4

Alexandra Hospital

Singapore

2:15 p.m.

The woman, her long, red hair pinned in a bun, wore the summer white uniform of a United States naval officer.

She glanced out the tinted window from the back passenger’s seat as the black Jaguar stopped in front of the white, sprawling building.

“The architecture is colonial. Beautifully landscaped, isn’t it?” The silver-haired man in the navy pinstripe sitting in the backseat beside her was engaging in peripheral chitchat.

“Yes, sir, it is,” she said, barely paying attention. The uncertainty was killing her.

“This was the old British army hospital in Singapore,” the man said. “The Brits built it in 1938. More than six hundred flower species are growing in the gardens surrounding the building. Hard to believe this was the scene of one of the bloodiest massacres of World War II.”

That riveted her attention. “What happened?”

“Battle of Singapore. 1942. The Japs came here and butchered British patients and medical staff. There’s a plaque over on the grounds commemorating it. Barbarians. Violated all the rules of civilized warfare.”

That sank in for a second. “Yes, sir. They violated all the rules of civilized warfare, just like whoever hit the Rasa Sentosa and those British tankers.” She inhaled deeply. “So we’ve come full circle.”

“After that,” the man continued, “they changed the name from the British Military Hospital, Singapore, to Alexandra Hospital.”

For a man reputed to be politically astute, good at putting others at ease, this talk was not helping unknot her stomach.

“Don’t worry,” the man went on, as if sensing he’d said the wrong thing. “I think if it was life-threatening, they would’ve taken him to Singapore General.” He took her hand. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine.”

Why did his face look so worried? Did he know something she didn’t?

“Thank you, sir.”

“Let’s go, Jim,” the man said.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Ambassador.” The United States Marine Corps sergeant, dressed sharply in his service dress-blue uniform, got out of the passenger’s front seat and opened the door for the United States ambassador to Singapore, the Honorable Gary Griffith. The ambassador stood, and the marine flashed him a sharp salute.

A second marine, the car’s driver, got out and opened the door for the woman. The corporal snapped to attention and snapped a salute. “Ma’am.”

“Thank you, Corporal.” The woman stepped out and returned the salute. Eight armed Singaporean police officers were lined up, four on each side, forming an armed human corridor from the car to the entrance of the hospital.

“This way, sir.” The sergeant motioned for the woman and the ambassador to follow him inside the main entrance. Just inside, a Caucasian man in a white physician’s jacket approached the ambassador with his hand extended.

“Welcome, Mr. Ambassador,” the doctor said.

“Doctor Shelton McNair, I’d like to introduce Lieutenant Commander Diane Colcernian, United States Navy.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Commander.” The doctor extended his hand. His accent was American. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Dr. McNair is chief medical officer for the US embassy here in Singapore,” Ambassador Griffith said. “I’ve asked him to personally oversee Zack’s medical care.”

“Is he okay, Doctor?”

“He’s suffering from smoke inhalation. He’s on oxygen, but I think he’ll be fine.”

“Can we see him?”

“He’s been under sedation, but sure. Why not?”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Diane said.

“My pleasure, Commander. Follow me.”

McNair led them through a back hallway to the staff elevator. They rode to the fourth floor.

“Follow me,” McNair said.

They walked past the nurses’ station to a hospital room door that was cracked open. Two voices having a slightly heated discussion poured out. One, female with a Singaporean accent. The other, Diane recognized with relief.

“But, Commander, you have not been released by your doctor,” the female voice said.

“Ma’am, I’m telling you, I’m fine. I’ve got work to do,” the male voice with a slight Southern accent retorted. “I can’t be stuffed up in here with a war going on out there. Pass me my shirt, please.”

Diane traded glances with Dr. McNair and Ambassador Griffith.

“Stay here a minute.” Dr. McNair stepped into the hospital room. He closed the door, but voices still poured under the door.

“What’s the problem, Commander?” Dr. McNair said.

“Doctor, I appreciate what you’ve done”-cough…cough-“but we’ve undergone attacks on two tankers and the Rasa Sentosa. All this appears to have been coordinated and”-cough…cough-“I work for Ambassador Griffith, and he’s going to want me on this”-cough…cough-“ASAP…”

Diane winced. The coughing was bad.

“Oh, really? Well, Ambassador Griffith can order you to stay in bed.”

“That’s my cue.” The ambassador looked at Diane and winked. “Stay here.” Griffith stepped through the door and into the hospital room.

“Mr. Ambassador!” A surprised tone came from the Southern voice.

“What’s this I hear about my naval attaché arguing with the nurses?”

“Sir, I”…cough, cough…“I’ve got to get back to the Rasa Sentosa.”

“What’s the hurry, Commander?”

Cough…“To be honest, Mr. Ambassador, I’m afraid Lieutenant Commander Colcernian may be out there. I’m worried about her, sir.”

“We’re trying to find her, Zack. In fact, I’ve got someone with me who has information that might help locate her.”

“Really?”

Diane recognized her cue. She pushed the door open slightly.

The Carolina blue T-shirt hugged Zack’s trim torso, and his navy blue swim shorts revealed a rich tan on his legs. That slight cleft was still in his chin, and a small dash of gray had set into his sideburns. She melted when his green eyes met hers.

“Thank God!” He threw his arms open and jumped off the bed. Their embrace would not be denied by any doctor or ambassador.

Their lips met.

Diane traced the bulge of his muscled biceps. The kiss…it was nuclear…then suddenly shortened when he pulled away to cough again.

“Commander, please. Back to bed,” Dr. McNair said.

“That’s an order, Zack,” Ambassador Griffith followed.

“Yes, sir.” He backpedaled and plopped onto the hospital bed, but he did not relinquish Diane’s hand.

“Feeling better now, Zack?” The doctor smiled.

“What?”

“Do you feel better?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” His eyes wouldn’t relinquish their gaze on hers. Nor would his smile fade. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

“Good.” Dr. McNair looked at the nurse. “Let’s get some O₂ in him, please.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Zack,” McNair said, “we’re holding you another day as a precaution against pneumonia. We’ll run tests. You should be good to go soon. Meantime, I’ll leave the three of you to visit for a while.”

“Thanks, Doc,” he said.

McNair stepped out of the room.

“Hold your head still, Commander,” said the small-framed Singaporean nurse. “The oxygen will make you feel better.”

“Sure.”

She strapped a small, clear oxygen tube to a mask and strapped it on his face. “If you’ll cooperate with us, Commander, maybe the doctor will release you soon.”

“Thanks, Nurse.”

The nurse smiled and stepped out of the room.

“So what happened?” His voice was muffled by the mask, but still audible. “You phoned from the lobby, and then…”

“I was standing in the lobby, but as soon as you told me you were by the pool, I couldn’t wait to see you, so I rushed outside. The bomb went off maybe five seconds after I stepped outside. We must’ve missed each other in the chaos.”

“Thank God you’re alive.” Zack squeezed her hand. “I hoped we could spend more time together before you shipped to the States. But now…”

Ambassador Griffith broke into a smile. “Zack,” he said, “Diane has some news for you.”

“News?” He raised a curious eyebrow. “Come on, tell me. I can’t stand surprises.” Cough.

“Well…” She exchanged glances with the ambassador. “It turns out that you’re not the only navy JAG officer to be appointed as a naval attaché.”

“Let me guess. I’ve been fired and the ambassador is hiring you?”

“How’d you guess?” she chuckled.

“Not hard. You’re a ton prettier than me.”

“You’re right about that, Zack,” the ambassador laughed. “But you’re not getting off the hook with me that easy. Actually, my pal Ambassador Martin Stacks over in Indonesia just lost his attaché. I knew the two of you might not object to being just an hour away from each other by plane, so I recommended Diane for the job. And what do you know?”

“Really?” Zack smiled through a couple of wheezes. “Congratulations! So how far is that from here?”

The ambassador answered, “Well, Commander, that’s 561 miles by the flight of the crow, or more to the point, by the flight of the C-130.”

Zack released her hand, but not his smile. “So when do you start your new job?”

“In about fifteen minutes. We just got word of an attempted attack against the tanker SeaRiver Baytown. USS Reuben James took out the suicide boat, and they found at least two Indonesians on board. Reuben James is bringing the bodies into port here in Singapore. I’m going down to meet the ship.”

His smile vanished. “I’m going with you.”

“Later, Commander,” the ambassador said. “I’ll make sure Commander Colcernian apprises you of everything.”

“Aye, sir.” His voice deflated.

Diane leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “See ya soon, Zack.”

Changi Naval Base

Singapore

2:45 p.m.

The new Changi Naval Base, home port of the Singaporean navy, was a panoramic splash of red-and-white, as the stars and crescent moon that graced the red-and-white, broad-striped flag of the tiny republic fluttered from every ship moored in the piers, from every building facing the piers, and from flagpoles on the piers themselves.

There was one exception.

The 450-foot gray warship, which only minutes ago inched slowly alongside Pier One, flew off her fantail the red, white, and blue of the Stars and Stripes of the United States of America.

At the end of Pier One, Lieutenant Commander Diane Colcernian, in the summer white uniform of a US Navy JAG officer, stood next to a Singaporean naval officer and watched as Singaporean sailors standing on the pier tossed lines back and forth with sailors on the American warship.

Moments later, the ship’s crewmen erected a portable catwalk between the ship and the pier, then unfolded a white-and-blue banner. The banner stretched horizontally along the catwalk and proclaimed in blue lettering: USS Reuben James FFG-57.

“Follow me,” Diane told her Singaporean naval escort. They stepped through the whipping breeze onto the catwalk, quickly marched over the water, and crossed the threshold onto the ship’s quarterdeck.

Adhering to naval tradition, Diane turned sharply to her left and saluted the national colors flying off the stern, then saluted the officer of the deck.

“Lieutenant Commander Colcernian. US naval attaché to the Republic of Indonesia. Request permission to come aboard, sir.”

“Permission granted, ma’am.” The OOD, a US Navy lieutenant, sharply returned the salute. “The skipper’s expecting you. I’ll escort you to the bridge.”

“Very well.”

They walked along the starboard gunwale, then left, up another ladder, to the entrance of the bridge. “Skipper, Commander Colcernian has arrived.”

“Commander.” The handsome sea captain nodded. “I’m Captain Shugert. Welcome aboard. Congratulations on your new job.” He reached out to shake her hand. “I hear your buddy, Commander Brewer, has a similar post here in Singapore.”

“Thank you, sir. For Zack, the job’s been in the works for a while. For me, it was late-breaking. Three days ago, I was headed to the Naval Academy to teach military law. Now, well, you know our mantra. We go wherever and whenever the navy calls.”

“You’ve got that right, Commander,” Captain Shugert said. “Well, I know you’re not here to tour another Hazard-class frigate. So let’s get down to business. I understand we’ve got some bodies you wanted to see before they’re off-loaded.”

Diane nodded. “Yes, sir. I understand two are Indonesian.”

“Right.” The skipper lifted a mug of black coffee just under his nose and took a whiff. “And the other two, well, put it this way. I think you’ll be in for a big surprise.” Shugert raised his black, bushy eyebrows and took a swig.

“You’ve aroused my curiosity. Could we see?”

Shugert set the mug down. “You sure? They’re shot up bad. If you want, we can bring out the evidence bag. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

It was still a man’s navy. The rugged, handsome sea captain, offering to protect a lady, even a lady officer, from a gruesome sight.

“Thanks, Skipper. I’ve seen worse. Remember? I was once a hostage. I’ve seen it all.”

Shugert nodded. “Fine, Commander. Suit yourself.”

A few minutes later, they entered the ship’s sick bay. Diane’s stomach twisted. All four were laid out on stretchers. Their faces were only somewhat recognizable.

“Odd,” the skipper said. “They all had IDs on them. Like they wanted us to know who they are.”

“Terrorists love taking credit for murder,” Diane said, “even in death.”

“The two on the left are Indonesian,” Shugert said.

“I can see that,” Diane said. “They look southeast Asian.”

“But the two on the right. Guess their nationality?”

“Not sure,” Diane said. “A bit brown-skinned, but definitely not African. Maybe Indian or Middle Eastern?”

“Check this.” Shugert handed Diane two plastic cards, about the size of a standard driver’s license.

United States Armed Forces

Service Member Identification Card

Moore, Rahim

SR, USN

241-97-5910

United States Armed Forces

Service Member Identification Card

Abdul, Shamu

AN3, USN

241-97-5910

“They’re ours!” Diane said.

“Apparently so.” Shugert winced. “Here’s what we know from NCIS. They’re both stationed on board USS Abraham Lincoln. Both have thirty days’ leave. Both just started their leave.”

“Where’s the Lincoln now?”

“The Indian Ocean,” he said. “Near Diego Garcia.”

Diane checked her watch. “Skipper, a marine courier from our embassy here in Singapore will come and collect the evidence. I just spoke with Ambassador Griffith, and I’m recommending that we hold all four bodies and the evidence at the US embassy here until Washington gets this sorted out. Since Lieutenant Commander Brewer is the new naval attaché to Singapore, he’ll be your point of contact while you’re in port.” She extended her hand. “Sir, I appreciate the hospitality, but it looks like I need to catch a flight to the Indian Ocean.”

She released the captain’s firm grip, then as they stepped out onto the ship’s fantail, popped a sharp salute. “Permission to go ashore, sir.”

“Permission granted.” He dropped the salute. “Take care of yourself, Diane. And be safe.”

The Altair Voyager

Near the Strait of Malacca

1:50 p.m.

How strangely quiet it was-blue-green, a white hue at the horizon, stretching forever eastward.

A gull hovered in the sky, a visible reminder that the endless water would soon give way to the jagged contours of the Indonesian coastline and the mammoth island of Sumatra. A school of dolphins leaped in graceful unison about a hundred yards off the starboard. There was little breeze.

The weather was as it was centuries ago, when sailing ships of old got stuck in the water, in the midst of a vast ocean, paralyzed by windless doldrums, their crews fighting scurvy, needing fresh water, with nowhere to go. If his were a sailing ship, he would be dead in the water. But his was an oil tanker.

At this moment Captain Fred Eichenbrenner wished that the ship he was piloting was a sailing ship-that they could stop, at least for a moment, here in the Andaman Sea, in the eastern sector of the Indian Ocean, and wait.

With only sails and no wind, he’d have a legitimate excuse for stopping. His employers could not complain.

But it wasn’t to be.

The news had spread all over the ship-to-ship radio networks. Two tankers burning off Singapore. Another attack attempted in the straits. As captain of a Chevron oil tanker, he was a prime target.

The US Navy had promised him an escort through the Malaccan Straits, courtesy of the guided missile frigate USS Ingraham.

Here though, in the Andaman Sea just outside the straits, he was vulnerable to strike by small craft. It would be a reach, but still, they could strike from Sumatra, from the Andaman and Nicobar Islands to his west, or more likely, from the tip of Muslim Sumatra to his south, or from anywhere on the Malay Peninsula to his east.

He would be safe on the open seas, they said.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe they weren’t.

Eichenbrenner brought his binoculars down. Why was he in this business? This was no place for a family man. The sea was a jealous mistress.

He’d lost his wife in a divorce five years ago. Her name was Sadie. He’d loved her with all his being.

It happened while he was out on a four-month cruise traversing the Pacific. Sadie found a younger man, an accountant, of all people, while working out at the gym. But the marriage was not a total failure.

Dana and Laura. They had come by surprise. Eight years ago. The twins were named for each of their grandmothers. Born carrot tops, each bore haunting blue eyes and rosy smiles.

When he brought them porcelain dolls from Shanghai, stuffed kangaroos from Australia, and handmade beaded jewelry from India, their eyes sparkled like the stars of the Milky Way on a clear, moonless night.

He would’ve given up the sea for their sake. He had struggled. The decision was hard.

The sea was who he was.

The sea made him unique as a father.

The sea was part of what they loved about him.

And despite his ex’s obsession with Mr. Bleach-Blond, Part-It-Down-the-Middle Man, the silver lining was this: her self-absorption with Charles Atlas meant more time for Fred with his twins. Though Sadie was too proud to admit it, fact is, the kids imposed on her time with her new lover.

That meant quality time with the girls when he was ashore.

They were the lights of his life. Last summer, they’d spent a week at Disneyland, camped at Yosemite, and visited San Diego. They took in Sea World, the Wild Animal Park, and the San Diego Zoo.

Enough reminiscing.

“How far to the rendezvous point with USS Ingraham?” The captain shouted this question to his first mate, between two satisfying drags of nicotine-saturated tobacco smoke.

“About two hours, Skipper.”

Eichenbrenner cursed, then dropped the cigarette.

They were out there.

Somewhere.

He knew it in his gut.

This day reminded him of 9/11. That day, they were after airplanes. Today…they were after ships.

Eichenbrenner struck another cigarette. “Steady as she goes,” he said. The smoke in his lungs calmed his nerves, but not his stomach. If he were a praying man, this would be the time to bow his head. But the sea dog was not into prayer. Maybe his luck would hold out for a couple of more hours.

New York Mercantile Exchange

2:55 a.m.

Robert Molster sat back and sipped more coffee. Had he done the right thing? He had called the chairman, but his boss hadn’t seemed overly concerned, just told Bob to call again if anything else developed.

Yes, the two limit moves were unusual, but it could’ve been anything. Probably coincidence. Things were calm now.

Robert took a pinch from the whole-grain muffin to help quell the late-night munchies.

He decided to check his email. He tapped the keyboard on the computer attached to the internet. The screen awakened. AOL headlines streamed across the screen. Multiple Attacks Against Oil Tankers in Singapore! Luxury Hotel Burning! US Navy Foils One Attack!

He clicked on the links and started reading.

“Wait a minute,” he said.

He went back and checked his tapes to compare the time of the attacks against the graphs showing the start of the two limit moves.

The timing was odd. Coincidental? Maybe. Maybe not. It was as if someone knew about the attacks and bought oil futures just beforehand to profit from the run-up in prices. He went back to his computer and called up the AP version of the breaking news story.

The Associated Press is reporting attacks overnight on oil tankers in the Singapore Strait. Also, word out of Singapore is that a luxury hotel has been hit, and a planned attack on an oil tanker in the Malacca Strait region was evidently foiled by the US Navy. Stay tuned for further developments…

“What?” The cold sensation running down his spine drove him immediately to the flat-screen TV, and he flipped on CNN. An aerial shot of an oil tanker billowing smoke flashed across the screen. It was like someone had dumped a bag of ice on him. Was he the only person in the world who was connecting the dots of what was going on here?

His buzzing monitor broke the silence. “Not again!” He cursed and rushed back to his computer, sending a splash of black coffee onto his starched white shirt.

Limit Alert…Limit Alert…Trading in January Light, Sweet Crude Calls, and Brent Crude Calls halted due to limit move of $10.00. Trading to resume at 3:15 A.M., EST, 8:15 A.M., GMT.

“A third limit move. Oil tankers attacked.” Something was definitely happening here. Robert picked up the phone, punching the direct line to his boss’s bedside.

“Mr. Chairman, Robert Molster here. Sorry to wake you again, sir, but we’ve got a major-league problem brewing.”

The Altair Voyager

Near the Strait of Malacca

2:00 p.m.

Captain! Small craft approaching!” “What? Where?” Captain Eichenbrenner lifted his binoculars toward the horizon.

“Zero-nine-zero degrees. Off the starboard, sir,” the first officer said. “He’s approaching fast!”

“I see him.” Eichenbrenner cursed. The speedboat was racing inbound. “First Officer, empty the small arms locker! Get a rifle team down to the starboard gunwale. Be prepared to open fire.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Captain!” The ship’s navigator was pointing out to the right. “There’s another one.”

“Where?”

“Just right of the first one, sir! Inbound!”

Eichenbrenner adjusted the focus ring on the binoculars and found the second inbound speedboat. “I knew it!”

“There’s a third one, sir. Now a fourth!”

“Lord, help us!” Eichenbrenner uttered his first prayer in more than thirty years. “Radio officer, open emergency channel to USS Ingraham. Tell ’em we’re under attack. Multiple small craft approaching. Intentions hostile. Estimated time to impact, three to five minutes. We need air cover! ASAP!”

“Right away, Captain!”

“First Officer, I want every small arm on this ship firing at these suckers!”

“Yes, Captain!”

USS Ingraham

Near the Strait of Malacca

2:02 p.m.

Radioman First Class Michael Griffin had assumed his post only five minutes before the shrill static crackled across his headset.

“USS Ingraham…This is the tanker Altair Voyager. We are under attack! Estimate five speedboats approaching at high rates of speed. Repeat, tanker Altair Voyager under attack! Request air cover! USS Ingraham, acknowledge!”

Griffin reached to the control panel and switched the radio to the transmit button. “Altair Voyager. USS Ingraham. Acknowledge. Stand by!”

Griffin punched several buttons to triangulate the source of the radio signal. Got it. He switched to the ship’s internal intercom system. “Radar. Radio. I’ve got a distress call from the tanker Altair Voyager. Please confirm coordinates.”

Two seconds passed. “Radio. Radar. Altair Voyager coordinates currently at zero-niner-four degrees, thirty minutes, fifteen seconds east longitude; zero-six degrees, twenty-five minutes, ten seconds north longitude. Course bearing one-two-zero degrees.”

Griffin penciled the numbers on a legal pad, then compared them against the triangulation numbers showing the source of the transmission.

“Bridge! Radio! We have a distress call from tanker Altair Voyager. Triangulation and radar confirm source of distress call! Altair Voyager is under attack by unidentified speedboats. Altair Voyager requesting immediate air cover. Repeat, Altair Voyager requesting immediate air cover.”

“Roger. Acknowledge!” The voice of the ship’s executive officer boomed over the ship’s loudspeakers on the 1MC. “General quarters! General quarters! Tanker Altair Voyager is under attack by multiple small craft. General quarters! Man battle stations.

“Helo deck! Bridge! Get both birds airborne! Immediately. Set course for Altair Voyager. Force authorized to defend against attacks and stand by for possible rescue ops.”

Two seconds passed. “Bridge! Helo deck. Roger that! We’re rolling both birds out now. Estimated time to launch bird one, four minutes!”

The Altair Voyager

Near the Strait of Malacca

2:05 p.m.

The arms locker of the Altair Voyager had been furbished with a total of six M1 Garand rifles, World War II surplus, that were purchased by the Chevron Corporation in the rare instance that they might be needed on the high seas.

Additionally, four 9-millimeter Beretta pistols had been furnished, one for the captain and three others for whichever officers the captain assigned them to.

Each weapon had been issued to every available deckhand. Ten gun barrels, six rifles, and four pistols were at that moment being aimed out to sea from the side of the ship.

Eichenbrenner couldn’t shake the images of the Alamo, of Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie and company aiming their rifles out of the Alamo at Santa Ana’s overpowering forces.

“Gentlemen, be ready to fire on my order!”

Suddenly, the boats slowed, about a quarter of a mile off the bow and just over to the right. They began circling like sharks in the water.

The crewmen started talking.

“What’s up with that?”

“Maybe changed their mind.”

“Could be our lucky day.”

“Quiet!” The captain held his hand in the air. The boats kept circling like buzzards over a carcass.

They did this for about a minute, until one of the boats slowly broke from the circle.

Then another.

Then a third.

They lined up one behind the other, all five speedboats, the sound of their revving outboards thundering across the water. They positioned themselves in a straight line, their bows pointed straight toward the ship.

“God help us,” someone said.

“They’re gonna try to hit us in the same spot to break our double hull,” the first officer said.

Eichenbrenner spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Bridge. Captain. Where’s our air cover from the US Navy?”

A squeak from the walkie-talkie. “Captain, we raised the Ingraham. Two choppers on the way!”

The engines of the first boat revved. It planed up and began plowing through the water, its bow aimed straight at the Altair Voyager.

The sound of more thunder. The second boat revved its engines. Its bow shot up as it charged like a bull in the wake of the first. The third fell into the fast-moving line. Then the fourth. And the fifth.

Like a bright lightning bolt flashing in the sun, the kamikaze flotilla cut the water in a vertical column, one behind the other, engines roaring, bearing down on the starboard gunwale just behind the bow.

“Open fire!” Eichenbrenner yelled.

The sharp crack of rifle volleys echoed across the steel superstructure of the ship. The smell of burnt gun powder filled the air.

An orange fireball burst from the fuel tank of the lead boat, followed by black smoke. Cheering erupted.

The burning hulk veered to the right as the second boat charged through its wake.

“Fire again!”

Shots splashed around the hull, spraying seawater in the air. Its windshield exploded in a shower of glass. Blood gushed from one of the terrorists’ heads. The pilot ducked down under the dash. The second boat, now the lead, charged on.

“Keep firing!”

Thirty yards.

Twenty yards.

“Keep firing.”

Ten yards.

“Shoot the gas tank!”

Bang…bang…bang…bang…

Five yards.

BOOM!

The speedboat crashed into the side of the ship’s hull at full speed. The explosion rocked the Altair Voyager, knocking men off their feet. Flames lapped up the right side. Captain Eichenbrenner stumbled against the steel protective cable surrounding the ship’s perimeter.

BOOM!

The third speedboat had now made it through the token rifle fire and crashed into the ship. Another explosion.

Eichenbrenner grasped the cable and looked up in time to see two of his men falling into the sea.

“Man overboard!” Eichenbrenner screamed into his walkie-talkie. “Execute man overboard drill! All engines stop!”

BOOM! BOOM! Two more heavy blows to the hull. More men splashed into the water.

“Everybody move aft!” Eichenbrenner motioned his men away from the leaping flames. The ship’s engines threw the propellors into reverse. The sudden halting of the ship’s forward movement knocked a few more men off their feet, but fortunately, this time no one flew off the deck.

“Toss life rings to those men!”

Five white life rings spun like Frisbees over the water, spinning, spinning, and finally splashing down into the Andaman Sea.

“Bridge!” Eichenbrenner yelled into the walkie-talkie. “Get a fire team down on those flames. Throw everything you’ve got at it. All fire extinguishers. All the water hoses on the ship. Get that fire out fast or it’s all over.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Blocking the sun with his hand, Eichenbrenner looked down over the side of his ship, squinting to see if the life rings had reached his sailors, flailing in the water below.

The rings bobbed on the water in a straight line over perhaps seventy-five yards. One man reached a ring in the center of the line. Two others were swimming toward the rings floating over to the right. The last two sailors were nowhere to be seen.

Fire shot skyward from the upper right gunwales of his ship, producing a rising heat that made it impossible to stand pat and search.

Eichenbrenner turned and sprinted toward the stern, away from the leaping flames.

US Navy SH-60B Seahawk (“Rover 1”)

Near the Malacca Strait

2:15 p.m.

At five hundred feet above the water, Lieutenant David Carraway surveyed the seascape below. The chopper’s shadow rushed across the sunlit waters, as the tropical green of the Malaccan Strait gave way to the blue waters of the Andaman Sea.

His sister chopper, code name Rover 2, the other Seahawk from the USS Ingraham, flew two hundred yards off to his side, tracking a parallel northwesterly course at one hundred thirty knots. Carraway gave a thumbs-up to Rover 2, then switched his radio frequency for a direct link with the other chopper.

“Rover 2, Rover 1. I’ve got you off my left wing, over.”

“Roger that, Rover 1,” said Lieutenant J. G. Edison Towe, Rover 2’s pilot. “You’re in my sights too, sir.” Towe flashed a thumbs-up back at Carraway.

“Very well,” Carraway said. “Maintain course and speed. ETA to targets five minutes.”

Static burst over the emergency frequency.

“Mayday! Mayday! This is the tanker Altair Voyager. Be advised we are on fire and are taking on water! Mayday! Mayday! This is the Altair Voyager. We are on fire and listing! Coordinates at zero-niner-four degrees, thirty minutes, fifteen seconds east longitude; zero-six degrees, twenty-five minutes, ten seconds north longitude. Mayday! Mayday!”

Carraway looked at his copilot. “Give me the mike.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

“Altair Voyager. This is US Navy helicopter. We copy your mayday. ETA less than four.”

“Roger that, navy chopper. Please hurry. They’ve busted our hull! We’ve got crude leaking. The sea’s on fire! We’re taking on water fast!”

Carraway clicked the send button again. “Roger that, Altair Voyager. Are you still under attack?”

Static. Then a response. “That’s a negative. No longer under attack. Preparing to abandon ship! The sea to the starboard of the ship is on fire, and we’ll be abandoning ship to the port side. We’re tossing life rafts into the water now.”

“Copy that, Altair Voyager. Hang tight. We’ll be right there.”