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.