The Malacca Conspiracy

by Don Brown

  “Sentosa Island, please,” the naval officer said. “Rasa Sentosa Resort.”

  “Of course.”

  The taxi rolled into the bright, equatorial sunshine, which cast an electrical glow onto grass, palm trees, and pink, red, and yellow flowers.

  “Your first trip to Singapore?”

  “First trip.” The officer slipped on a pair of Oakley shades. “It’s beautiful. So much greenery.”

  “This is East Park. These flowers and these palm trees”-the driver steered with his right hand and gesticulated out the window with his left-“Singapore wishes to impress visitors leaving the airport. Lots of locals come down here to have a picnic or sit and watch the water. We’ll take the East Coast Parkway along the waterfront, then take the causeway across to Sentosa. It’s less than five miles. You’ll enjoy the ride.”

  The officer looked to his left as the taxi sped west along the parkway. A few yards beyond the grassy banks, past the seawall, the blue waters of the Singapore Straits sparkled under the midday sun. Three ships, large, black tankers, were passing in the straits just a few hundred yards from them. Two of them, headed to the east, churned low in the water. Probably full of Middle Eastern crude.

  “We get navy visitors from many countries,” the cabbie said. “US, UK, Canada. More and more Chinese too.”

  Car horns blared. Brake lights flashed.

  The cab slowed to a stop in the traffic jam. The officer rolled the window down. A fresh sea breeze blew in from over the strait.

  “You look familiar, Commander.” The cabbie’s black eyes darted into the backseat through the rearview mirror. The cab started rolling again.

  Oh, great. I can’t get away even here in Singapore. He glanced at the dashboard. A name tag was screwed onto the panel just above the central air conditioning duct. Your Driver-Victor Yang Loon. “So I’ve been told.”

  “Have I seen you before?”

  “I don’t know.” Just drive.

  “Aren’t you Commander Zack Brewer?”

  Should I get into this? “My mother calls me Zack. The navy calls me Commander…Actually that’s Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer.”

  “I saw you on TV. You were great in that court-martial against those chaplains! A few years ago.” The cabbie, whose eyes were now on the rearview mirror more than on the road, was referring to the case called United States of America v. Mohammed Olajuwon, et al., which brought Zack Brewer international fame when he prosecuted three US Navy Islamic chaplains for treason and murder.

  “Thanks,” Zack said.

  “And then you were on television again with those other two cases you handled!” This time, he was referring to Zack’s prosecution of two US Navy fighter pilots, both Islamic, who had used their navy jets to launch terrorist strikes-and his successful defense of a US Navy submarine commander on trial for war crimes in Moscow.

  “It’s amazing what they put on TV, isn’t it?”

  “I am Victor Yang Loon. It is a pleasure, Commander Brewer.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Victor,” Zack said.

  Yang Loon babbled on. Zack ignored the driver and gazed at the colorful sights of the bustling, tropical Asian city by the water.

  The cab swung left, crossing over the causeway from Singapore’s main island to Sentosa Island.

  Would she be there? She promised. But it had been so long.

  They’d fallen in love. Or so he thought. How was a guy supposed to know? And then, like that, she was gone.

  Time.

  Distance.

  Misunderstandings.

  The navy pulling them in different directions.

  These warred against him, it seemed. He tried staying in touch in the aftermath, but most of his emails and letters went unanswered in the months that followed. Silence prevailed.

  Long-distance relationships were rife with misunderstandings.

  He had been the victim of such a misunderstanding. Or, perhaps, of his own idiotic decision making?

  He was sent to Australia by the navy to get him out of the limelight. The loneliness at times was heavy.

  A British naval officer-a woman stationed at the British embassy in Australia when he was at the US embassy-found out that his birthday was approaching. When the woman asked him to dinner for his birthday, he politely declined.

  Then, she asked again.

  And again.

  And one or two more times.

  “Oh, come on, Zack,” she said. “We’ll have a jolly time. No worries. We’ll just go as friends, you know. There’s a great little restaurant over on Marcus Clarke Street,” Leftenant Emily Edwards had said, in that magnetic, cheery British accent reminiscent of Princess Diana. “The Cougarette. The service is slow, but the food is mouthwatering.”

  Her repeated invitations were friendly enough, casual enough, and nonthreatening enough.

  Finally, he relented.

  Big mistake.

  They went out three times, a dinner and two lunches. They did nothing taboo by most Southern Baptist Sunday school standards. But Leftenant Edwards had apparently seen it all differently.

  She found Diane’s cell number. The international call roused Diane from bed.

  “Did Zack tell you about me?” Edwards was purported to have asked. “Did he tell you that I took him out to dinner for his birthday?”

  It was downhill from there.

  Diane called, scolding him harshly for the first time. “Friends don’t lie to each other,” she had said. “Zack, I don’t need women calling me. I won’t be coming to see you. You can call me every six months to let me know how you’re doing.”

  Then Diane had hung up. What was up with all that?

  He’d spoken with her, emailed her, or text messaged her every day for over a year, and after Edwards’ call, she had just hung up. Then, silence.

  The package arrived a few days later. It was a sentimental family Bible that was his grandmother’s. He’d given it to Diane. It showed up in the mail with her return address. No note, no nothing. The body blow left him breathless.

  Ambiguity had reigned in their on-again, off-again relationship. “You should date other people,” she had told him several times in the past. “I need time to heal. You shouldn’t wait for that.” She had never recanted from that position.

  What? Had she been joking? What?

  Women.

  Who could figure?

  Pitfalls and personal hardships were part of navy life, and long-distance relationships were a navy pitfall. Diane came from nowhere-out of the blue. They had been through the fire together in San Diego. And then, she was gone.

  Wrestling with himself for months, finally he surrendered to the reality that he had fallen for her.

  Now she had agreed to meet him, once more, just for a couple of days before reporting to her new duty station in Indonesia.

  But would she really show?

  USS Reuben James

  The Strait of Malacca

  11:15 p.m.

  Commander Adam Shugert, skipper of the Reuben James, stood aft of his ship’s superstructure, arms folded, watching his crew at work.

  At this instant, the smoldering speedboat dangled in the air over the sea, suspended on chains under the sixteen-ton deck crane located on the ship’s fantail.

  “Easy does it. This way,” the officer of the deck was saying.

  “Gotcha, sir,” a petty officer said.

  “Slow and easy. Bring her on around,” the OOD ordered.

  “Here we go,” the crane operator announced. The steel crane hummed and squeaked. The boat swung under it like a pendulum in the whipping wind. The crane rotated clockwise, bringing the hulk over the steel deck.

  “Clear out! Bringing her down!”

  Sharp, metallic squealing pierced the air, as the crane inched the boat down to the steel deck.

  Thud.

  “Good job!” the OOD said.

  “Everybody back,” the master at arms said. Four armed guards quickly set up a perimeter aroun
d the boat.

  Captain Shugert, the XO, and two agents from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service stepped through the perimeter.

  Shugert winced.

  Four shot-up bodies, their white T-shirts and blue jeans splattered with blood, lay sprawled in the bottom of the boat. All four looked Asian.

  “XO, get some corpsmen up here. Pull those bodies out and check for identification.”

  “Aye, Skipper.”

  “Good. Where are my EODs?” Shugert glanced at his watch as he asked for the explosive ordinance disposal team assigned to his ship.

  “We’re here, sir.” EODC Elbert Tarkenton, the senior enlisted demolitions specialist on board, was walking through the perimeter of armed guards. “We’re ready to take a look, sir,” Chief Tarkenton said, “but we need to have those bodies pulled out so we have room.”

  Two hospital corpsmen arrived with four single-sheet canvas stretchers, stacked one atop another. Bungee cords strapped blankets and body bags on the top stretcher. The blankets whipped in the warm breeze blowing across the back of the ship.

  “You guys get those bodies off that boat,” Shugert ordered. “Watch for detonation devices.”

  “Aye, Captain,” one of them responded. Another unleashed the bungee cords and separated the stretchers on the deck just in front of the boat. Two others strapped on latex gloves and approached the boat with a stepladder.

  A moment later, two corpsmen in the boat pulled the first body out and laid it on the ship’s deck.

  Three minutes later, all four bodies lay on the stretchers, a gruesome sight of blood and flesh glistening in the midday sun. Two young sailors vomited over the side of the ship.

  “Check ’em out,” Shugert ordered.

  “Skipper,” a corpsman said, “we found two US Navy identification cards.”

  “What?” Shugert stepped forward and took the cards. “Unreal.” He turned around. “XO, notify Seventh Fleet. Advise attempted attack on convoy unsuccessful. Perpetrators killed. Four bodies on board USS Reuben James. Two bearing US Navy identification cards. Request permission for port stop in Singapore.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Rasa Sentosa Resort

  Sentosa Island, Singapore

  12:40 p.m.

  The cab swung into the circular driveway in front of the hotel and stopped. A greeter opened the back door, and Zack stepped into the warm air.

  A small stream of picketers was marching along the street holding anti-American and anti-British signs. Zack donned his naval officer’s cover and reached into the cab to pay the fare. He wanted to go punch out the protestors, but more important matters were at hand. A bellman grabbed his luggage, and he stepped into the sleek modern lobby.

  Tourists, wearing an assortment of bathing suits, tennis outfits, and casual summer outfits, milled about the main entrance.

  Where was she?

  She promised she’d be here.

  Zack craned his neck, looking up and down the moving escalators and all around the lobby. Nothing.

  A young, fair-skinned woman at the front desk who looked to be in her early twenties greeted him with a smile. “May I help you?” Her accent was pleasantly British.

  “I’m Lieutenant Commander Brewer, US Navy. I have reservations. Has Lieutenant Commander Colcernian checked in?”

  The woman checked her computer screen. A moment passed.

  “No sign of Commander Colcernian.”

  “May I go ahead and check in?”

  “Let’s see…” More typing on the screen. “We’re very tight, but we have some spaces already open for diplomatic personnel who are staying with us, if you don’t need a king-size bed and if you’re willing to forego a sea vista view.”

  Zack smirked. “I don’t care if it’s a king-size bed or a sleeping bag. It’s just me in the room.” He glanced around the lobby. “I’ll take it.”

  “Very well, sir. Room number 4035. Take the lift to the fourth floor, turn left, fourth room on the right.” She handed him a magnetic key card.

  “Thank you, Miss Claire,” Zack said, reading the woman’s name tag.

  Suddenly, something felt odd to Zack. Call it his sixth sense.

  He turned away and surveyed the lobby once more.

  The dark-skinned, Middle Eastern man in the white suit stood about thirty feet away, just in front of the revolving exit doors. The man was staring. Zack locked eyes with him. Something cold and hard seemed to pass between them.

  A blazing hatred seemed to burn in the man’s eyes and face. Zack forgot about Diane for the moment and stepped toward the stranger.

  The man turned, swiftly exiting through the revolving doors.

  Zack quickened his pace, rushing through the doors. The man jumped into the very cab that Zack had ridden in from the airport.

  The cab sped off.

  The man turned, locking eyes with Zack once more, as the cab disappeared around the bend in the palm-tree-lined Silosa Road.

  Victor Yang Loon’s taxi

  Sentosa Island, Singapore

  12:47 p.m.

  Victor glanced in the rearview mirror at the white-suited passenger.

  “What’s your rush, my friend?”

  “I have a flight to catch.”

  “What time is your flight?”

  The man checked his watch. “Ninety minutes.”

  “Which airline?”

  “Saudi Air.”

  “Don’t you have any luggage?”

  “No luggage,” the man said.

  Odd.

  “You are my third passenger today from the Rasa Sentosa to the airport with no baggage.”

  No response.

  “What is it with the Royal Saudi Airlines?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You are my third Saudi passenger today going to the airport with no bags. Not many day commuters on Royal Saudi Airlines.” Victor swung the cab around the last traffic circle on Sentosa Island. They approached the causeway bridge leading to the Singaporean mainland.

  “What makes you think I am Saudi?”

  “You are flying Royal Saudi Airlines. I assumed-”

  “-lots of people fly Royal Saudi Airlines. I am Kuwaiti.”

  “Ah…my apologies…”

  “Does Singapore make it a crime to have no luggage, my friend?”

  The cab crossed the causeway. Victor veered onto the East Coast Parkway.

  “No crime, my friend. Just wondering.”

  They headed east. Victor thought something was strange about this fellow.

  “You know, my friend”-the man donned dark shades-“I was thinking of bringing my wife and children back to Singapore for a holiday. We have plenty of time before my flight. Please stop at East Coast Park so that I might get out for a moment and shoot a few pictures for my family. I will reward you handsomely.”

  Why did this seem odd? But if the man was going to pay him… “Of course.”

  They sped around the East Coast Parkway, crossed Marina Bay, then sped past Marina City Park on the right. Crossing another bridge, they entered the area of East Coast Park.

  “Turn here,” the passenger ordered.

  Victor took exit 12, the Fort Road-East Coast Park exit. They passed Marine Cove, Kite Runners, and Raintree Cove on the right.

  “Turn here,” the passenger ordered, as they came upon the C-4 parking lot, just a few hundred yards from the water. Victor swung the car to the right. A few cars were parked in the lot, but not a soul was in sight.

  “Park here.”

  Victor found an empty space and threw the cab in neutral.

  A powerful hand clamped his nose and mouth from behind. Another gripped his Adam’s apple, yanking his head against the headrest. Victor squirmed, but the man’s overpowering grip clinched harder against his throat.

  “Mmmmmmm.”

  “You talk too much, my friend.”

  Victor flailed, reaching for the man’s hair. Nothing. Heaving, pushing, Victor twisted. Turned. Sq
uirmed.

  The man’s powerful fingers dug into his esophagus.

  Coughing.

  Gagging.

  “Perhaps life would have served you better had you learned to keep your mouth shut.”

  Wheezing.

  Choking.

  Water streamed from Victor’s eyes, trickling down his cheeks.

  The windshield.

  The dashboard.

  The cabbie’s vision blurred. Thoughts flashed by of his wife and two teenage daughters. His arms fell limp.

  Then a gasp…yes, a sharp intake of air…the hand was gone! Victor widened his eyes.

  A sharp blade slashed his throat. His world spun. Warm blood gushed from his mouth and throat.

  “Shhhhhhhhhhhh…” The faint sound of his attacker shushed Victor to sleep.

  Then…

  Blackness.

  Rasa Sentosa Resort

  Sentosa Island, Singapore

  1:15 p.m.

  Wearing a pair of dark blue swim trunks and a light blue-and-white North Carolina Tar Heels T-shirt, Zack stepped from the lobby into the warm afternoon. Two aqua-colored pools with outdoor verandas and thatched huts sparkled between the palm trees just outside the Rasa Sentosa.

  Zack slipped on his Oakleys. The polarized lenses gave everything an extra glow under the bright sunshine. He took in the sight and walked toward the pool closest to the white sands of Silosa Beach.

  He sat in a white lounge chair facing the water. Dozens of beachgoers were sunbathing and splashing in the gentle surf. Beyond that, two oil tankers were moored low in the water perhaps a quarter of a mile offshore. Beyond the tankers, boats and ships of all sizes and types crisscrossed in both directions.

  Two Royal Navy frigates flying the British naval ensign and Union Jack steamed to the east. The frigates made Zack long for his days as staff judge advocate aboard the supercarrier USS Ronald Reagan, where he served before they sent him to Australia.

  His cell phone vibrated. He felt around the pocket of his swim trunks, fished out the phone, and flipped it open.

  “Commander Brewer.”

  “Zack?” The voice set his chest pounding like a battering ram. “Where are you?”

  “At the hotel, out by the pool. Are you at the airport?”

  “I’m in the lobby of the hotel.”

  “You’re in the lobby? Why didn’t you call me from the airport?”