by Don Brown
8:30 a.m.
The sun crested off to the right, peeking through the rusty warehouses and banged-up asphalt parking lots sweeping by the side of the road as his van raced to the north on the interstate.
“Why Philadelphia?” Mohammed blurted this question aloud, as if someone in the cabin of the U-Haul would give him an answer.
It was unfair. He had been in America longer than the others. His command of English was the best of the three. He had been studying the longest. His sacrifice had to be the greatest. Thus, should he not have a say in the matter? But Philadelphia?
They had claimed that Philadelphia had been selected because of its importance in American history. The Declaration of Independence had been signed here, they said. The Constitutional Convention had convened. Or so they told him. The famed American monument, the “Liberty Bell,” was also here, they said. Plus, the Americans would be suspecting another attack on New York. Philadelphia would be an easier target.
Despite all their justification, Mohammed suspected that he, as a Saudi citizen, probably knew more about American history than ninety percent of most Americans. He suspected that most Americans, especially those under thirty years of age, had no clue what the Constitution and Declaration of Independence were, let alone that they were signed in Philadelphia.
To most Americans, Philadelphia, along with Detroit, was one of the two ugliest cities in the entire country. Philadelphia was a rowdy place where football fans threw car batteries from the top of Eagles Stadium at opposing fans walking down below.
The city’s dirty, nasty reputation meant that there would be less sorrow and outcry over the strike against Philadelphia than the strikes to the other cities. Frankly, this bothered him.
So why was he not chosen to strike Washington? Or perhaps even San Francisco? These questions churned like a storm in his soul.
The coming blow to Washington, if it came to that, would be the sharp dart in the bull’s-eye of America’s heart.
He wanted to strike Washington. That was his understanding of his mission when he had come to America eight years ago. That is precisely why he had volunteered to sacrifice his life.
But then, they had changed his mission. In fact, his new target had been revealed to him only in the last month.
This he had struggled with. Thus, he had asked Allah to help him with his attitude. In response, Allah had reminded him of this truth: even though he had not been selected for San Francisco or Washington, still he, out of millions of martyrs who would have volunteered for this mission, had been called and chosen as one of only three.
Also, there was a chance that none of the other strikes would take place, at least not yet, assuming that the United Nations responded as General Perkasa had demanded. Since Philadelphia was first on the target list, America could acquiesce after his martyrdom, and his martyrdom alone.
“The Americans are soft and cannot stand carnage,” they had said. “After you enter martyrdom and are reunited with Allah, the Americans will back down. They will surely press the UN into passing our demands concerning Israel. Most of the UN already agrees with us anyway. So you, Mohammed, may be the only one who actually has the privilege of martyrdom.”
He saw their point, he supposed. His martyrdom alone might be sufficient to end the Jewish occupation of the homeland of Palestinian Muslims.
That thought gave him goose bumps.
He clicked his signal light approaching the next off-ramp. The sun was rising now over smoggy Philadelphia, but he needed to rest his body for the mission at hand.
The U-Haul van rolled to a stop at the top of the ramp. A small blue-and-white road sign pointed to an Econo Lodge a half-mile to the right.
Mohammed clicked the turn signal again, then pressed the accelerator. A moment later, he rolled into the asphalt parking lot and parked in front of the motel office.
He entered the office. A man, who looked Indian or Bangladeshi, stood behind the check-in desk.
“I need a room,” Mohammed said.
“I’m sorry,” the man said, “check-in is at one o’clock.”
Mohammed extracted a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and slid it across the desk. “Perhaps you could get a room ready early?”
The man pocketed the money. “Perhaps I can persuade a member of our custodial staff to prepare a room a bit early, Mr…”
“Jones.”
“Yes, of course. And could I please see some form of identification, Mr. Jones?”
Mohammed pulled another hundred from his wallet. “I seem to have left my license in my truck. The name is Ed Jones.”
“Of course, Mr. Jones.” The Indian was smiling now. “I’ve discovered that a room has just opened up. If you’ll give me about five minutes, I’ll make you a key to room 115. It’s just around the corner.”
United States Embassy
Jakarta, Indonesia
7:00 p.m.
Zack had grown up with many dear African American friends in the small coastal town of Plymouth, North Carolina. Now, for the first time in his life, he physically resembled many of those friends, he thought, as he glanced in the mirror after Master Chief Stoudemier had finished his handiwork with the shoe polish. At least his face resembled the faces of his friends.
His garb did not.
After the swift makeover, he was issued a black turtleneck sweater, black pants and boots, a black ski cap, an Uzi submachine gun, a small radio transmitter-receiver, and night vision goggles. In the last fifteen minutes, he had been miraculously transformed into a black man in black.
Amazing.
Still, there had been no word from Captain Noble on whether he could go on the mission. That was understandable. Captain Noble had spent the last hour war planning with Lieutenant Commander Garcia and the other SEAL squad leaders.
Now, word had come that the SEALs were meeting in the large dining area of the embassy in five minutes. They were already assembling in the hallway and were making their way into the dining hall.
Could this be it? Had Washington approved the mission? Would he be allowed to accompany the SEAL team into the palace? A blurry flash of thoughts raced through his mind. Would he find Diane? Alive?
What if they found her dead? The Indonesian president had already been assassinated. Diane and the ambassador were meeting with the president when the bomb detonated. Weren’t they?
If they found her body, would he put the cold barrel of the Uzi in his mouth and simply pull the trigger? Get ahold of yourself, Zack.
“Hustle up, men,” Lieutenant Commander Garcia was saying in the hallway. “Muster in the dining hall. Captain Noble has some instructions.”
Some instructions? Washington must’ve approved the mission.
“Zack.” A firm voice came from behind him, then a strong hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Captain Noble, decked totally in black like the rest of the SEALs, carrying an Uzi in his left hand. “Stick close to me. We’re going, and against my better judgment, I’m approving your request to go in with us. You understand the risk and the danger?”
“Yes, sir.” His heart flew into hyper speed.
“All right, muster up and listen to my instructions.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Zack quickly stepped into the dining hall, now mostly full of other black-clad, black-faced Navy SEALs, sitting at various tables scattered around the room. At the front of the room, a podium and microphone had been placed, and behind it, a large screen. Zack quickly found a table near the front of the room and sat.
Lieutenant Commander Garcia stepped into the dining hall. “Attention on deck!”
The entire SEAL team shot to its feet and froze at attention, as Captain Noble strode quickly across the room.
“At ease and be seated.” The captain moved quickly behind the podium. “Gentlemen.” Noble’s commanding voice reverberated across the room. “We’ve just gotten word. Washington has approved our mission. We move out in”-he looked at his watch-“one hour from now. Li
sten and listen carefully. In fifteen minutes, we’re heading back up to the heliport to load onto the choppers.
“We will have thirty minutes in the palace. Now you’ve all been studying the maps that we’ve supplied, and you know that there are two principal target areas where we look first for our people. First, there’s the president’s office, which is here.” He pointed to the map projected on an overhead projector.
“We believe that the president was assassinated here, and that the ambassador and the commander were here. The XO will take his team here.”
“Lieutenant?” Noble nodded and one of the SEAL team lieutenants fired up a PowerPoint. On the wall, an image appeared. The man on the wall looked like a South American tinhorn dictator. Zack had studied the US 1989 military operation against Panama, and this man looked like a twin brother of the former Panamanian dictator, Manuel Noriega.
“This, gentlemen, is General Suparman Perkasa. He is the chief of staff of the Indonesian military. Our intelligence believes that he may be the man behind the assassination of President Santos.
“This afternoon, Indonesia exploded a nuclear bomb on Gag Island in the Halmahera Sea.” Mumbling arose from the SEALs. “Listen up. From the information that we have, it appears that one of our cruisers, USS Port Royal, was crippled in that blast. We believe that much of the crew may have been lost.”
Silence. The gravity of the situation was now settling on Zack. Diane could be in the hands of a nuclear madman.
“Now, this general has gone on television and threatened the United States with nuclear blackmail.
“We think this guy might be holed up in the palace. The lieutenant is now passing out photos of him. If we see him, we are to take him out. Am I clear on this?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Aye, Captain!”
“Put the map back up, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Now we think that perhaps Perkasa, if he’s in the palace, could be operating in the vicinity of the president’s office, which is here.” He tapped on the map at the hallway outside the presidential office.
“The other principal target is here.” The captain was pointing to a different area of the map. “The medical clinic.” He eyed his men. “If there are injuries, or if there have been fatalities”-Captain Noble glanced at Zack-“we expect the dead and the injured to be here. We may have to shoot our way through. But if the lights are out, we have an advantage. We own the night.
“Remember, our objective is the safety and rescue of our people. That means bringing the ambassador and Lieutenant Commander Colcernian out of there. We move quickly once in the palace and then we report back to the roof, where the choppers will be waiting. Anyone not back on the roof will be left behind. We must work quickly and efficiently, and we must be deadly. Any questions?” A hand went up. “Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, will we be receiving backup from the battle group?”
“The plan calls for air cover by F/A-18s from the Reagan. Hopefully that will keep the Indonesian Air Force off our tails if they discover us. But we’re vulnerable to anti-aircraft fire from the ground. That answer your question?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Other questions?”
There were none.
“Very well. Let’s get moving.”
Jakarta Air Base
7:15 p.m.
The pilots had given him no more trouble, but had obeyed his orders to land the plane. As well they should have. The arrogant punks.
And now, as the Indonesian Air Force C-9 taxied down the runway to the tarmac, the pilots would see.
They would see by the reception awaiting him exactly who they were up against. When they saw him promoted to the rank of colonel on the spot, they would think twice about causing trouble over the incident on the plane.
Hassan stood up. Standing in the aisle of the taxiing plane, he pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed his medals. Then he rubbed his bars signifying his rank as captain. This would be the last time, he thought, that he would have to worry about a smudgy fingerprint on his captain’s bars. From this day forward, he would be wearing the insignia of a colonel. Or perhaps, yes, perhaps they would promote him directly to general right here on the spot. He could not help but to shiver at the thought of it.
The plane rolled to a stop. A moment later, one of the stewards opened the door to the plane. Hassan took a breath and stepped out onto the portable stairwell. He looked down.
No lights.
No honor guard.
No television cameras.
The bastards! They had rolled the plane to a stop at an area of the airport away from the ceremony. All to embarrass him…to avoid having to witness him receive his just promotion in his glory!
“We are in the wrong place!” he yelled back at the steward. This would not go without repercussions. “I want to see the pilot! Now!” Hassan screamed.
The pilot stepped to the door. “What is it now, Captain?”
“Why have we rolled the plane to a stop here?” he demanded.
The disrespectful pilot looked sarcastically at the steward, and then back at Hassan. “Captain Taplus, we stopped the plane here because we were ordered by ground control to stop the plane here. We park the plane wherever ground control tells us to park it.”
What garbage. “It is a crime under the Indonesian Code of Military Justice to lie to a superior officer,” Hassan screamed. “You are a liar, and you will not go unpunished!”
“With all due respect, Captain,” the pilot snarled, “you are not my superior officer. I am a captain too. We are of the same rank.”
“We will see about that,” Hassan snapped. He reached for his pistol. As his hand felt the grip, an Indonesian army sergeant bounded up the portable staircase toward the cockpit entrance.
“Captain Taplus!” the sergeant shouted, flashing a salute as he approached the two men. “Colonel Croon sent me to pick you up, sir.”
“Colonel Croon is not here?” Hassan returned the salute. The ungrateful piece of scum. Sending a sergeant to the air base. Croon was undoubtedly feeling threatened already and was trying to undercut his promotion.
“The colonel is with the general,” the sergeant said. “Your presence is needed.”
“Very well.” At least that comment would let the pilot know who he was dealing with. He turned back to the pilot. “This is your lucky day, Captain. I will deal with you later.” He turned to the sergeant. “Let’s go, Sergeant.”
United States Embassy
Jakarta, Indonesia
7:20 p.m.
The warm tropical night air was blowing from the north, barely noticeable against the wind gusts generated from the whirling blades of the three choppers sitting atop the embassy helipad.
The Uzi strapped over his shoulder, Zack stood on the helipad alongside Captain Noble, watching the captain bark orders.
“Move, move, move!” Captain Noble was motioning with his hands and directing the SEALs, who were climbing in an orderly fashion into the three SH-60B Seahawk Navy choppers on the pad.
Because the embassy itself was less than a mile from Merdeka Palace, the execution plan called for the choppers to make a wide swoop in the air, first to the south, then circling all the way around the city to hit the palace from the north.
Choppers One and Three would attack the palace’s power plants with rocket-propelled grenades, while Tomahawk 2, spearheaded by Captain Noble’s group, would lead the burst onto the palace roof.
“Okay, let’s go, Zack,” Captain Noble said. “Head down. Stick with me.” Sprinting across the roof behind the other SEALs, Zack followed Noble to Tomahawk 2, jumped in the cargo bay, and strapped into a nylon jump seat. “Get these birds in the air,” Noble ordered. A second later, Tomahawk 2 lifted off, pulling away from the lighted embassy below.
With hot adrenaline rushing down his neck, Zack gritted his teeth and gripped the Uzi like it was the only present his mama ever gave him.
&nbs
p; He was going to kill someone.
He knew it.
Soekarno-Hatta International Airport
Jakarta, Indonesia
7:22 p.m.
The sound of buzzing hornets swarmed into the headset again. The controller cursed, then ripped the headsets off and tossed them down as the radar screens went blank.
“Chief, we’ve lost all contacts on radar again!”
Other air traffic controllers in the room stood and waved their hands in the air. “Mine’s down too!” shouted one. “Radar’s blank!” another yelled.
“What the…” The chief air traffic controller stormed across the room, unleashing a string of profanity. “Notify all inbound traffic. Radar failure! Get these planes turned around. Now!”
SH-60B Seahawk (“Tomahawk 2”)
Over Jakarta, Indonesia
7:30 p.m.
The Seahawk’s cargo door was wide open, and six US Navy SEALs sat on the chopper floor at the ledge, their legs dangling down over the white city lights of Jakarta just below them.
Zack grasped the gun and carefully crouched on the deck just behind them, about four feet from the edge. Not even the supercharged adrenaline flowing through his veins was sufficient to fully erase his fear of heights that had been with him since the first time his granddaddy had sent him up to the top of a tobacco barn when he was just a boy.
Zack looked out, not down.
Out to the right, Tomahawk 1 was flying slightly ahead of Zack’s chopper, and Tomahawk 3 was flying to the left.
“Stand by, men,” Captain Noble said. “We’re going once we turn out the lights. Stand by. Three, two, one…”
Pwfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff.
A blazing rocket streaked from Tomahawk 1 to the left wing of the palace. BOOM!
Pwfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff.
BOOM! Another rocket, this from Tomahawk 3, rocked the right side of the palace.
The palace went dark.
“Let’s go, baby!” Captain Noble said.
“’Twas the night that the lights went out in Jakarta!” someone yelled.
“Woooooooooo!” Someone imitated WWF Heavyweight Ric Flair.
Tomahawk 2 dipped its nose and feathered down on the center roof of the building.