The Malacca Conspiracy Read online

  The problem was the smoke.

  Black plumes billowed from the right side of the sinking ship. The wind, blowing from right to left over the top of the ship, was spreading it like a black blanket above the water.

  The ship’s crew was in the water opposite the flames, but under the black smoke. The choppers were designed to fly through air, but smoke was another matter. Carraway and his crew had to breathe. Plus, even if he were to descend into the smoke he would be operating blindly and blowing the deadly stuff into the lungs of those poor souls who were floating in the sea below.

  Carraway picked up his microphone. “Ingraham. Rover 1. Altair Voyager is on fire and sinking. Survivors believed to be in the water, but thick smoke cover makes air recovery impossible. We need surface vessel support. The situation is critical down there.”

  Static on the radio. “Rover 1. Ingraham control. Copy that. Maintain your position until further notice. We’re preparing to broadcast on universal frequencies.”

  “Roger that, Ingraham.”

  Static over the speakers. “To all ships and aircraft in the area. This is the USS Ingraham. Be advised that the tanker Altair Voyager is on fire and sinking in the Andaman Sea. Approximately one hundred miles east of the Nicobar Islands. Coordinates at zero-niner-four degrees, thirty minutes, fifteen seconds east longitude; zero-six degrees, twenty-five minutes, ten seconds north longitude. Request any surface vessels or aircraft in the area respond accordingly. Repeat. Request any surface vessels or aircraft in the area respond accordingly. This is the USS Ingraham.”

  The White House

  3:45 a.m.

  Ladies and gentlemen, the president.” Arnie stepped into the Situation Room just ahead of Mack.

  The group of six men and women, which included the vice president, the defense secretary, the secretary of state, the national security advisor, the director of national intelligence, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, all rose to their feet.

  “Sit down,” Mack said. “It’s not like Judge Judy stepped onto the bench or something.”

  That brought a few chuckles, as US Navy stewards in black dress pants and white chef’s shirts pushed silver trays with steaming coffee and fresh blueberry muffins about the room.

  “Cyndi.” Mack looked at his fifty-year-old, red-haired national security advisor, Cynthia Hewitt, who was seated just to his left. “You called this meeting. What’s up?”

  “Terrorist strike in Singapore, Mr. President,” Hewitt said. “Multiple strikes on oil tankers in the Straits of Malacca and Singapore. Oil futures prices rocketing out the roof. The markets are teetering on the brink.”

  “Spell it out.” Mack sipped a cup of the hot coffee that had just been poured by a navy steward. “What’s been hit in Singapore?”

  “A bomb in the lobby of the resort hotel Rasa Sentosa. Preliminary count showing dozens dead and injured.”

  “Any of our people?”

  A wince crossed Cyndi’s face. “Sir, Commander Zack Brewer had just arrived as our naval attaché reached the rendezvous point wi to Singapore. He was at the hotel when the bomb went off.”

  Mack felt his stomach drop. Over the past five years, Zack Brewer had become something of a national hero and the navy’s most famous officer for his prosecution of three Islamic US Navy chaplains accused of treason.

  “Please don’t tell me we’ve lost Commander Brewer.”

  “He’s in a hospital in Singapore. That’s all we know right now.”

  Mack passed a hand over his face. “Tell me about these strikes on oil tankers.”

  Hewitt adjusted her reading glasses. “Four attacks in the last four hours. One was foiled by the navy, sir. USS Reuben James intercepted and destroyed a suicide boat full of explosives trying to ram the tanker SeaRiver Baytown.

  “Two other tankers guarded by the Royal Navy in the Singapore Straits weren’t so lucky. Both were hit by suicide boats and are aflame even as I speak.”

  “How bad?” Mack nervously sipped coffee.

  “Bad, sir. South Singapore is in chaos. They’re dousing water on the burning tankers, but it’s hard to get burning oil under control. Meanwhile, the oil that hasn’t caught fire is slicking all over the Singapore Strait, and it’s lapping on the beaches around Singapore and Sentosa Islands. Dead birds and fish are washing onto the beaches. Smoke clouds from the oil are already rising over the city.”

  Cyndi Hewitt whipped off her reading glasses and paused. “We’ve got an environmental disaster on our hands, Mr. President. Think the Prince William Sound in a major metropolitan area.” She was referring to the 1989 mammoth oil spill in Alaska, when the tanker Exxon Valdez ran into a reef, spilling millions of gallons of crude in one of the most devastating environmental disasters in human history.

  “And the fourth tanker? Where’d they hit it and how bad?”

  Hewitt readjusted her reading glasses. “Mr. President, the Chevron tanker Altair Voyager was just attacked a few minutes ago in the Andaman Sea, right outside the entrance to the Malaccan Strait. She was to be escorted through the strait by USS Ingraham, but she was hit before she reached the rendezvous point with the Ingraham. She’s on fire and sinking. Oil is leaking into the sea, but they’re over a hundred miles from shore. Nearest city is Banda Aceh, Indonesia.”

  “Banda Aceh. Why’s that familiar?”

  “Mr. President,” Secretary of State Robert Mauney spoke up, “Banda Aceh is the city that took the biggest loss from the 2004 Boxer Day tsunami that devastated the region. Over one hundred sixty-five thousand died there.”

  “Those poor people,” Mack said. “Wiped out by a tsunami. Now they’re at risk of a mammoth oil slick reaching their beaches.”

  “That’s correct, Mr. President,” Hewitt said, “and all the environmental hazards that go with it, unless we can stop it.”

  “We’ve gotta try,” Mack said. “Any Americans on board that tanker?”

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Roscoe Jones, responded. “Mr. President, the Chevron tanker is flying under a Panamanian flag. But the captain is American, along with several members of the crew. We’ve got two Seahawks from Ingraham out there right now, sir, but they can’t do much.”

  Mack rubbed his temples. “Why not, Admiral?”

  “Thick smoke clouds from the burning oil. Choppers can’t fly through ’em.”

  “Do we have any ships in the area that can help?”

  Admiral Jones ran his hand through his hair. “USS Ingraham is steaming that way and should be on site within a couple of hours. One of our fast attack subs, USS Boise, is in the area. Also, the president of Singapore has requested that we dispatch a carrier task force to the area immediately.”

  “What’s our closest carrier operating in the area?”

  “USS George Bush is operating in the South China Sea, sir.”

  “Then that request is approved. Get the Bush as close to Singapore as you can. Plus, I want all available military resources dispatched to help that burning tanker. Save lives.”

  “Aye, Mr. President.”

  “Cyndi, what’s going on in the international markets?”

  “Mr. President, someone’s making tons of money off this. I’ll defer that question to Admiral Jones.”

  Mack raised his eyebrow. “I didn’t realize the admiral was an economist.”

  “I’m not, Mr. President,” Jones said. “But we may have correlation between skyrocketing crude oil futures prices and these attacks.”

  Mack rubbed his chin. “Explain, Admiral.”

  Jones, wearing his service dress-blue uniform with the massive gold sleeve bands of a four-star navy admiral, steepled his fingers together. “Sir, one of our reservists, an intelligence officer assigned to J-2, works as a commodities analyst at the New York Mercantile Exchange. This officer alerted the chairman that huge limit moves in the price of crude oil took place at roughly the same time as the attacks. The verdict is still out, but someone could be making billions from thes
e terrorist actions. Perhaps someone with advance knowledge.”

  “Hmm.” Mack stood up, crossed his arms, and paced back and forth. “Who’s making billions? And what are they doing with the money?”

  “Good question, Mr. President,” Hewitt said.

  “I need an answer to that question…and fast.” The president turned back to Admiral Jones. “Admiral, if I catch your drift, you’re suggesting…possibly…that there is a correlation between huge limit moves in oil futures and these attacks?”

  “Quite possibly, sir,” the admiral said, “at least that’s what the reservist I mentioned to you believes. He thinks he detected a correlation in the overnight limit moves and the attacks around the Malaccan Strait. This is certainly worth monitoring.”

  “This reserve officer. What’s his name?”

  “One moment, Mr. President.” Admiral Jones checked some notes in his file. “Molster. Lieutenant Robert Molster.”

  “Robert Molster.” The president instinctively repeated the name. “Well, Admiral, I want you to call this Lieutenant Robert Molster, send him greetings on behalf of his commander in chief, and inform him that as of”-the president looked at his watch and calculated-“nine o’clock this morning, he is officially called up to active duty in the United States Navy, to serve at the pleasure of the president and the Joint Chiefs of Staff until further notice.”

  The Altair Voyager

  Near the Strait of Malacca

  3:00 p.m.

  The aft of his ship was rising into the air like the back end of a seesaw. The bow section, which was flooding rapidly, was aflame and sinking into the sea.

  Captain Eichenbrenner grabbed the steel cable surrounding the perimeter of the deck and looked down over the port side into the water below, which was growing darker under the black cloud of oily soot spreading overhead.

  All of his men had jumped into the water, somewhere below.

  He looked, one last time, at the flames leaping from the forward section of the Altair Voyager.

  The thought crossed his mind that as captain, he should go down with his ship. There was a certain chivalrous lore about this time-honored maritime notion.

  To go down with a ship was one thing. Being burned alive on it was quite another. Heat rolled in oppressive, hundred-plus-degree waves from the front of his ship. His body and clothes were drenched in perspiration from scorching flames.

  The helicopters were out there, somewhere, and by the roar of their engines, they had to be nearby.

  But where?

  And how would they possibly rescue his crew?

  The late afternoon sun was shining on the horizon, but the sky over the ship was black, as if a solar eclipse had darkened the sea.

  “Attention! This is the US Navy!” Loudspeakers blared from helicopters somewhere above the smoke. “If you are in the water below, swim away from the ship in the direction of the ship’s aft!”

  Eichenbrenner looked off the stern. The smoke cover extended a couple of hundred yards behind the ship, and perhaps five hundred yards to the left. The navy was urging his crew to swim out from under the smoke cloud so they could start rescue operations. Aft of the ship was their best chance. But that was a long shot. The smoke cloud was spreading in every direction, probably faster than his men could swim. They needed a miracle from the wind.

  “Swim away from the ship in the direction of the ship’s aft! Repeat, this is the US Navy!”

  “Skipper! Jump in the water!” a voice called from below.

  Despite the heat, he felt frozen, alone on the great vessel that was under his command. A captain must never abandon his ship, even at the moment of death.

  “Jump, Skipper!”

  He looked back toward the flames.

  And then, he saw them.

  Dana and Laura.

  Their red hair was blowing in the wind. Teardrops beaded in their blue eyes. Was it a hallucination? He heard that people had hallucinations before death. Or maybe they were angels. Maybe angels were real.

  “We love you, Daddy,” Dana said.

  “Daddy, please come home,” said Laura.

  The smoke was affecting his breathing. His mind was playing tricks on him.

  “Jump!”

  He stepped onto the ship’s ledge. “God, let me see my girls again.” He leapt into the air, his stomach in his throat, as he flew down, down, toward the dark waters below.

  USS Boise

  The Andaman Sea

  3:02 p.m.

  Wearing his wash khaki uniform and a navy blue ball cap with the emblem of his submarine and the initials “CO” stitched in gold on the front, Commander Graham Hardison walked across the control room and put his hand on the shoulder of the enlisted man who was seated at a control panel just in front of the skipper’s seat.

  “Got any more of that black stuff, Mr. COB?” Mr. COB was the acronym that submariners often used to refer to the chief of the boat, usually the senior enlisted man on board a US Navy submarine. In this case, the COB was Radioman Senior Chief Fred Gimler, a tall, balding South Dakotan who was approaching thirty years in the submarine service.

  “Yessir, Captain,” the COB said. “Just brought a pot up from the galley.” Gimler turned around with a knowing grin.

  “I thought I saw you tiptoeing onto my bridge with steaming contraband in hand,” Hardison joked.

  “Guilty as charged, Captain.” The COB twisted the plastic top off the insulated thermos. The scent of fresh coffee permeated the control room, and Commander Hardison felt a jolt to his senses just from the scent of it. “Your mug, sir?”

  Hardison held his white, porcelain coffee mug, with coffee acid rings circling the bottom-a badge of honor among submariners-out to the chief. “Mug looks a little clean, sir.” The COB grinned as steaming, black, battery-acid strength coffee oozed into the skipper’s mug.

  “Maybe in my next life, I’ll come back as a navy chief, Mr. COB,” Hardison joked. “That way, I’ll always make sure there’s something growing in the bottom of my mug.”

  “Trust me, Skipper, the pay’s better in your seat,” the COB chuckled.

  Hardison laughed. “Thanks for reminding me, Chief.” He took a refreshing sip of the strong stuff. The kick was immediate. “Ahh. Good stuff.”

  Hardison returned to the captain’s chair. “XO, report our updated position, please.”

  “Aye, Captain,” the executive officer said. “Currently eighty-three miles east of Nicobar Island. Speed ten knots,” the XO said. “Course zero-nine-zero degrees.”

  “Very well,” Hardison said. “Steady as she goes.”

  “Steady as she goes. Aye, Captain.”

  “Conn. Radio.” The radio officer’s voice blared over the intercom.

  “Radio. Conn. Whatcha got?”

  “Sir, we’ve got an all-frequency distress call from USS Ingraham.”

  “The Ingraham?” Dear Lord. The Ingraham was one of the US Navy frigates assigned to tanker escort duty in the Malaccan Strait. “Don’t tell me another terrorist attack.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  Hardison sloshed his coffee. “What is the position of the Ingraham?”

  “The Ingraham is not under attack. She’s relaying a distress call for the tanker Altair Voyager. The tanker’s on fire in the Andaman Sea, near the western entrance to the Strait of Malacca. She’s taking on water. They’ve abandoned ship. Two choppers from the Ingraham are in the area, but rescue efforts are being hampered by a smoke cloud. They need assistance on the surface, sir.”

  Hardison stood. Adrenaline was starting to kick in.

  “Navigator. Plot a course to Altair Voyager. Advise on ETA at full power.”

  “Aye, Captain.” The navigator punched the coordinates into the sub’s navigational computer. “Estimated time of arrival at full power…twenty-two minutes, Captain.”

  “Very well. Radio. Contact Seventh Fleet. Mark it. USS Boise requests permission to surface to assist USS Ingraham in rescue efforts of tanker Alt
air Voyager.”

  The Andaman Sea

  3:14 p.m.

  Captain Eichenbrenner lay back in the warm sea water, trying to stay afloat.

  Where was his crew? Perhaps they were swimming aft, trying to get out from under the thickening black smoke.

  “Skipper! Over here!”

  Eichenbrenner pulled his arms through the salt water and saw two of his men clinging to a single donut flotation device.

  The flotation rings were designed to hold one man, not two. “I’m okay!” he shouted. “You men keep that ring. I’ll be fine.”

  “Skipper. You better get over here!”

  The men kept motioning for him to swim in their direction. “Hurry, Skipper!”

  Instinct took over. If he didn’t get away from the ship, he’d be sucked under when it went down. He started swimming in the direction of their voices.

  “Swim away from the ship in the direction of the ship’s aft! Repeat, this is the United States Navy!”

  He pushed his arms through water and pulled down, beginning a backstroke. The sky blackened by the minute. If the cloud came much lower, it would cut off their oxygen.

  “Hurry, Skipper!”

  He pulled his hands through the water, then pushed water down from over his head to his sides.

  “Over here, Skipper!”

  A hand snatched his forearm, pulling him under. He popped up and found himself with two of his crew members, Seamen Tommy Grimes and Dennis Basnight. Each hung on the life ring.

  “It won’t hold us all, Skipper,” Basnight said, blowing sea water from his nose, “but it helps. Just kick a little. Maybe we can hang on long enough to get out from under this smoke so the chopper can throw us a line.”

  Eichenbrenner looked around. They were about fifty yards from the burning, smoking relic of the Altair Voyager. “Forget the smoke!” he said. “We’ve got to get away from the ship or we’ll get sucked down with it. Where are the men? Did they swim aft?”

  Basnight bobbed under the water, then bobbed back up. “The situation isn’t good, Skipper.”