by Don Brown
“Get your night goggles and your weapons,” Captain Noble said. “Let’s move.”
Zack helped Diane strap on a pair of night vision goggles as the SEALs ripped open the bay door and quickly stepped out of the helicopter.
Zack took Diane’s hand and led her out onto the grass.
The pilot, Lieutenant Cameron, was already outside and suggesting that they move quickly away from the chopper in case it exploded.
Single file, they moved quickly up a hill about two hundred yards, and then gathered quickly in a semicircle. Green bushes, about knee-deep, were growing all around the helicopter.
“You got a fix on where we are, Lieutenant?” Captain Noble directed this question to the pilot, Lieutenant Cameron.
“Yes, sir. I’ve got our coordinates, and we’re about sixty miles southeast of Jakarta. Maybe twenty miles north of the coastline. According to our charts, this is tea plantation country, and I think these plants are tea plants…”
“That’s exactly what they are,” Petty Officer Rodriguez spoke up. “My parents were missionaries to Indonesia. I’ve been in this part of the world before.”
“Thanks, Rodriguez,” Lieutenant Cameron continued. “There’s a road about a mile north of here that connects Bogor and Bandung. The region north of that between here and Jakarta is hilly, mountainous, and largely uninhabited. That’s probably the best place to head if we want to avoid detection.”
“You got a navigational map, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir,” Cameron said. Quickly, the pilot unfolded the map and laid it carefully on the grass. “Here’s our location, sir. We’re at approximately seven degrees south latitude and one hundred seven degrees east longitude. The city of Bogor is just over here to our west. The city of Cianjur is just to our east. Here’s that road, and that mountain range is just to our north.”
“Okay, I’ve seen enough,” Noble said. “Group off in threes and let’s move out.” He looked at Diane. “Zack, Diane, you two come with me.”
Those words were somehow a relief to Diane. “Aye, Captain.”
Chapter 17
The White House
9:00 a.m.
With his shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms and his arms folded, President Mack Williams was pacing back and forth just at the head of the long conference table in the Situation Room.
“Still nothing?” He glanced at the secretary of defense, Erwin Lopez, as if tossing him a presidential glance would somehow speed the flow of information from a nighttime military operation half a world away.
“Still nothing, sir,” Lopez said. At that very instant, the secure line from the Pentagon rang in front of the defense secretary. “Secretary Lopez.”
Mack watched as Lopez sat with the phone to his ear, scribbling on a legal pad.
“The ambassador is out?” Lopez looked at the president and nodded. “One chopper down…”
Not again.
Secretary Lopez hung up the phone.
“What’s going on, Mr. Secretary?”
“The good news is that we’ve rescued the ambassador. He’s injured, but he’s on board one of our choppers over the Indian Ocean, headed for the Reagan. They’re under fighter escort and out of range of the Indonesians.”
“Thank God,” Mack said. “Did I hear you say we’ve got a chopper down?”
“I’m afraid so, Mr. President.”
“Who was on board?”
“That’s not clear yet, sir. The SEAL team was spread out over all three choppers.”
“Did they find Commander Colcernian?”
“No word on that, sir. I’m sure we’ll know when the other two choppers land on the carrier.”
“What about Perkasa?”
“Nothing, Mr. President.”
Mack slammed his fist on the table. “A chopper down. Perkasa still at large. I feel like I’m one for three.”
Members of the National Security Council sat for a moment, many with blank looks on their faces.
Then the secretary of state spoke up. “You know, Mr. President, in baseball, one for three at the plate is pretty darned good. And the game’s not over. In fact, we’ve just started.”
The comment brought a smile to Mack’s face. “Secretary Mauney, you always have a way of finding the right thing to say at the right time.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That’s why you’re this nation’s chief diplomat.” Now Mack had Robert Mauney smiling. “And you’re right, this is not the end. In fact, your baseball analogy reminds me of the words of one of my political heroes, Winston Churchill. ‘This is not the end. This is not, even, the beginning of the end. But it may, just possibly, be the end of the beginning.’”
The quote brought chills to his spine.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, leaning forward with his hands on the table, and eyeing the members of the NSC, “Winston Churchill, Ronald Reagan, and other great leaders of the twentieth century showed us by their words and their actions that evil is not always easily defeated. Nothing worthwhile is easy.
“Let’s get back to work. I want to find Perkasa, and I want to take him out.”
Across from St. Stephen’s Catholic Church
Jakarta, Indonesia
8:05 p.m.
The white marble was lit against the night by bright spotlights shining up from the ground. The statue was inanimate, she knew. But still, somehow, the image of Jesus holding his palms to the heavens brought comfort to her in the midst of a personal maelstrom. The other times, she had visited the church during daylight hours, and she had never really noticed the statue.
If only he could talk. If only he were here. But strangely, it seemed that he was here. As if he had walked and run and jogged with her all the way across the city to the doors of this house that belonged to him.
In the hours after she had fled from the Martins’ home, Kristina started sensing a warm presence with her, somehow drawing her here. Now that she had arrived outside the church, the statue of him stood out like a sign that she was about to do the right thing.
Was she? Could she really trust the priest? Suppose she had been followed?
If they had killed the president, was anyone off limits? Of course not. They would kill her, she knew, for what she knew, for who she knew, and for what she held in her hands.
Still, it was as if a spirit within her had drawn her here-it was a strange and gentle spirit through the midst of danger and death. Perhaps this was the spirit of God? She could not say for sure. But if she were going to die anyway, it seemed that the spirit was reassuring her that this was a place to die in peace.
She looked behind her to see if she had been followed, and then finding a slight gap in the cars that were zooming back and forth in both directions, she jogged across the street and up the granite steps to the front doors.
Panting, Kristina reached for the doorknob and turned.
Locked.
Her eyes turned back to the busy street and sidewalk. Surely somebody was watching her. They were out there. Somewhere. Perkasa’s men. In the dark behind the streaking cars, someone had a rifle trained on her.
Panic gripped her body now.
Of course the church was going to be closed at this hour. What was she thinking? Where to go?
Instinctively, her body pivoted back around to the door-and her hand went to the doorknob. She shook it, twisted it, and tried knocking on the door. Then she beat on it. No one. Nothing but the noise of traffic swirling behind her.
The warm feeling turned to ice, and she cocked her head to the heavens, her eyes again on the illuminated statue. “Did you bring me here just to lock me out?” she screamed, as tears began welling in her eyes.
As her eyes moved from the statue, gradually back down the outer walls of the cathedral, she saw it. A small sign illuminated only by the fluorescent glow of a distant street light.
After Hours Emergencies Only: Press Buzzer Below.
“Thank you!” She pressed and held the button,
igniting a long, grating buzz.
Nothing.
She pressed the buzzer again.
“May I help you?” A woman’s voice came back over the loudspeaker.
“I need to see the father.”
“Which father? We have several priests on the staff.”
“I don’t know. The one that does confession. I’ve been several times.”
“One moment, please.”
A couple of minutes passed. The woman’s voice returned. “Is there something I can help you with? We have a food pantry around the back of the church if you are in need.”
“I need the father. Now! Please tell him it’s an emergency!”
“Could I tell him what kind of emergency?”
What to do? Kristina wiped her forehead. “Tell him I am the one who said that someone is going to die. Someone important! Tell him that it happened…that it happened today!”
A pause. “Wait one moment, please.”
Now it was out. She knew. They would know that she knew. They would figure out that she was talking about the president…that she knew about the assassination. Her mind swirled like a raging windstorm. They had probably called the authorities.
The sound of a siren approached from down the highway in front of the church. A police car sped down the road. Its flashing lights swirled. Run! Now!
The police car zoomed past the church. It did not stop.
At that moment, the door opened. A man’s voice came from the dark shadows. “Sister Marguerita says you are looking for me.” She recognized the voice from the confessional booth. A figure appeared. “I’m Father Ramon. I believe we’ve spoken before.”
“I am afraid, Father. I am so afraid.”
“Please come in. This is God’s house. You are safe here.”
Northbound Interstate 95
Five miles southwest of downtown Philadelphia
9:10 a.m.
The traffic was remarkably light for this time of morning, Mohammed thought as the van curved to the left and then crossed Island Avenue, leaving the perimeter of the airport off to the right. Another curve to the left brought the van to the bridge crossing the Schuylkill River. Here, three northbound big rigs clogged the swift flow of traffic to a slow-moving bottleneck creeping onto the bridge.
In the middle of the I-95 bridge, the U-Haul came to a stop behind the eighteen-wheeler. Mohammed cursed. Then, with nowhere else to go, he realized that he was witnessing the last view of a waterway that he would ever see this side of paradise.
What a depressing sight, under the bright light of the morning sun, this vintage panorama of the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard, home of America’s Atlantic “mothball fleet.” Rusting steel hulks by the hundreds, in the form of US Navy warships, testified that America’s greatest days as a world power ended with the last century.
And the mortal blow that he would strike at the heart of the City of Brotherly Love would underscore further ineptitude of this giant cesspool’s ability to protect its infidels in its largest population centers.
He had driven this route down the wide expanses of Broad Street dozens of times in preparation for this moment. The buildings…he could see them in his sleep. To his right…the basketball arenas whose names had changed with the failed American banks they had been named for…The First Union Center which became the Wachovia Center and then the Wells Fargo Center, and behind it, the Lincoln Financial Field, home of the Philadelphia Eagles.
What a shame that martyrdom would not come there. At Lincoln Financial Field, in the midst of seventy thousand obnoxious infidels. But the martyrdom would come. Soon.
Past the sports complexes, the drive north along the southern section of Broad Street was a picture of the scum of urban decay. Abandoned, dilapidated buildings. Plywood nailed over broken glass. Windows smashed out with no plywood coverings. Drug dealers huddled in alleyways, swapping cash for cocaine. Vagrants openly urinating in back alleys. All the product of decadent America and its worship of Judeo-Christian Zionism.
Purification was coming soon. The thought brought a sudden peace to Mohammed’s soul. He stepped on the accelerator, running the yellow light at the intersection of Broad Street and Snyder Avenue.
Crystal Tea Room at Wanamaker Building
Downtown Philadelphia
9:30 a.m.
The Philadelphia Chamber of Commerce was due in for its luncheon in another two-and-a-half hours. Marie Carter had already been working for two hours, along with other members of the kitchen staff, setting fine china plates and sterling silverware on the flower-adorned banquet tables.
“Ready for a smoking break?” This was the friendly voice of her supervisor and smoking pal, Sally Rawlins, who, like Marie, needed a ten-minute nicotine fix at least once every two hours to get through the day.
“I need to make a quick call,” Marie said.
“Okay, maybe I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” Sally walked out of the large banquet room and into the hallway.
Marie pulled her cell phone from her purse. “No signal,” she mumbled. “What a surprise.”
Stepping over to the window, which faced the back side of historic Philadelphia City Hall, the signal bars reappeared on the screen.
She punched “1” on the speed dial, and four rings later, the sound of her own voice bellowed from the answering machine at her home eighteen miles to the east, far across the Delaware River in Berlin, New Jersey.
“You have reached the Carter residence. No one is available to take your call. Leave your name and number and we’ll get back with you.” Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
“Honey, are you there?…Are you there?…Will you pick up, please?…I guess you’re out on your jog. Listen, we’re pretty busy with a Chamber of Commerce banquet and I don’t know if I’ll be back in time to pick up the girls from school. Do you think you’d be able to help me out? Good luck with the interviews today. I know you’re going to find a job soon. Love you. Miss you. Bye-bye!”
She clamped the phone shut. Eric had been without work for nearly a year now, and every day for the last year, she had prayed that something would open. But still, nothing. Nobody wanted to hire a midlevel bank executive in his mid-thirties. Not in this economy anyway. Downsizing and corporate layoffs had taken its hard toll on so many, and she had taken this job to try and slow the bleeding.
And it wasn’t all that bad. History had always been her favorite subject in school, and she loved teaching it to her two young daughters, Amy and Sharon, whom she had home-schooled through fifth grade. But this year, when Eric lost his job, they had placed the girls in public schools while she went back to work part-time. And although neither the hours nor the work were particularly rewarding, it was nice to be able to look out at the historic Philadelphia City Hall, with a huge clock larger than London’s Big Ben. The majestic building on Penn Square had been the tallest building in the world until 1908. She was fortunate, in many ways, that if she had to work, she could at least work in the midst of a great cradle of American history. And in this, she found at least some solace and inspiration.
She checked her watch. Not enough time now for that smoking break. That was all right. She had been trying to quit anyway, and had been praying for the strength to stop. She sipped her coffee and glanced down at the bustling activity on the square.
Downtown Philadelphia
9:33 a.m.
Mohammed slowed the van as it approached the intersection of Broad and Chestnut Streets. The large clock tower of the Philadelphia City Hall loomed five hundred fifty feet in the air, rising above Penn Square just a half a block directly in front of him. On top of the clock tower stood the statue of the dead infidel William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania.
The van reached Penn Square, and Momammed swung around the square to the right. Then, following the perimeter road around the square, he turned to the left again.
He pulled the van over to the left, just behind the Philadelphia City Hall on the east side of Penn Square, almost in f
ront of the Market Street entryway to Penn Square.
Car horns from obnoxious Philly drivers blared in protest of the van blocking the left traffic lanes. He would have to hurry. The cops would descend upon him any moment.
He reached over to the small suitcase that was sitting in the seat next to him and popped it open.
Honk! “Hey, move over, ya lousy scumbag!” The driver shook his fist at the van.
Another driver pushed down on the horn. “Get out of the road!” another driver yelled in an obnoxious Philly accent.
Mohammed rested his thumb on the detonator. He closed his eyes and turned his head to the right, in an easterly direction toward Mecca. “Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah.”
Crystal Tea Room at Wanamaker Building
Downtown Philadelphia
9:35 a.m.
That’s odd,” Marie mumbled aloud, looking out the window and down at the U-Haul that was blocking the traffic lane and making so much commotion behind City Hall.
A twisting in her stomach told her that something wasn’t right. Then, sudden, unexpected panic washed over her, as if forewarning her.
“April,” she instinctively called to the coworker standing nearest to the window. “Come check this out.”
The van exploded into the blinding sun. Great heat burned Marie alive, melting the flesh from her arms.
St. Stephen’s Catholic Church
Jakarta, Indonesia
8:40 p.m.
Kristina sat in a chair just in front of a modest wooden desk bearing the nameplate Father Ramon. “What is your name, my child?” he continued to ask. But in the last thirty minutes since she arrived, Kristina had been too scared to answer him.
“Father, I’m terrified.”
“Yes, I can see that, but if you want the church’s help, you have to trust us enough to give us your name.”
The priest’s black eyes reflected a trusting kindness. If she could not trust this man, then whom could she trust? Somehow, she knew that she could trust him. “Kristina. Kristina Wulandari.”
“And are you from here in Jakarta?”