“You the captain?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t worry, sir. We’ve got three other squads out on the water looking. If anybody’s out here, my men will find ’em. You sound American, Captain.”
“Born and raised in Southern California.”
“Well, sir, I want you to look back there.” The SEAL pointed across the stern of the raft.
It was long, black, and sleek, floating just above the surface of the water.
Toward the front of it, a black, square-shaped superstructure rose into the air. Off the back, lit by the orange glow of the sun setting on the horizon beyond the edge of the cloud cover, the flag of the United States of America flapped in the late afternoon breeze.
“That, Captain, is the USS Boise. We’re going to take you there now, and then we’re going to take you home. Chief, let’s do it.”
“Aye, sir.” The chief revved the electric motor. The boat turned in the water and cut a course directly for the submarine.
Eichenbrenner took one last glance over his shoulder at his sinking ship. The stern was rising off the water like the high end of a seesaw. It would not be long now until she slipped under the sea. He looked away, never to look back.
The sight of the Boise, of the flag draped in the afternoon sunlight, of his ship burning and sinking, then the realization that he would see his girls again, that his desperate prayer had been answered…Tears began rolling.
“It’s okay, Captain.” Kennedy put his hand on Eichenbrenner’s back. “We’re going home.”
Chapter 6
New York Mercantile Exchange
6:00 a.m.
Robert Molster sat back in his chair and looked at the electronic clock on the wall. 6:00 a.m. Two more hours to go. What a night. He took another sip of coffee, leaned back in his chair, and looked up at the screen that flashed continual news from the Associated Press. He had been monitoring it since he saw the first reports of the attacks on the tankers. Now word was coming in that there had been another tanker hit, this time in the Andaman Sea. Robert shivered.
The phone rang. “What now?” He picked it up. “Light, Sweet Crude Section. May I help you?”
“Lieutenant Molster?” a woman’s voice inquired.
Lieutenant? This was odd. Why was he being referred to by his military title? “Robert Molster speaking.”
“Lieutenant, this is the White House switchboard. Could you hold, please?”
“The White House? What the…”
“Lieutenant Molster?” A deep, resonating voice came on the phone.
“Lieutenant Molster speaking.”
“Lieutenant, this is Admiral Roscoe Jones, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”
Was this a joke?
“Are you still there, Lieutenant?”
“My apologies. How may I help you, sir?”
“Well, Lieutenant, it’s not me who’s asking for your help. It’s the president.”
“President Williams?”
“Yes, Lieutenant. He was still president as of zero-four-hundred hours this morning, when the National Security Council was concluding an emergency meeting.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“We’ve heard from the chairman of the New York Mercantile Exchange that you’ve had some concerns about the overnight movement of oil price futures. The president has ordered me to inform you that as of this moment, you are being recalled to active duty in the United States Navy.”
“Immediately?”
“Immediately. I want you to go home. Get packed. Throw on your service dress blues, and be at Newark Airport by ten-hundred hours. BUPERS”-the admiral was referring to the Bureau of Naval Personnel-“has already cut your orders and made flight arrangements. Your flight leaves Newark at eleven-hundred. Your tickets will be waiting for you at the US Airways counter. Just show your Navy Identification card. We’ll pick you up at Reagan National at noon. From there, you’ll be driven to the Pentagon, where you’ll report for duty at the JCS.”
Robert let that settle in. This was happening so fast. “But, sir, I’m scheduled to brief the chairman of the New York Mercantile Exchange in just about an hour.”
“Son,” the admiral said with a tinge of impatience in his voice, “at fourteen-hundred hours this afternoon, you’re scheduled to brief the president of the United States. The chairman of the Mercantile Exchange can wait. We’ll take care of all that. As of now, your commander in chief is in need of your services. Any questions?”
“No sir, Admiral, but…” He hesitated.
“But what, son?”
“Well, sir, I’ve been monitoring the news about these tanker attacks in Singapore and now the Malacca Straits. And I’m concerned that…” He hesitated again.
“You’re concerned that there might be a linkage.”
Robert exhaled. “I can’t prove it, sir, but as an intel officer and as a commodities analyst, yes, sir, I do have that concern.”
“We’re concerned about that too, Lieutenant. That’s part of the reason you’re being called to active duty. You might be a reservist, but you’re the only intel guy we’ve got with the breadth of commodities experience to give us a briefing on this. Now then, do you have any other questions?”
“Negative, Admiral. No other questions.”
“Very well. Then get your stuff packed, get in your uniform, and get your tail down to the airport. Understood?”
“Understood loud and clear.”
St. Stephen’s Catholic Church
Jakarta, Indonesia
5:05 p.m.
It had seemed so right in one sense. She was, after all, a woman, with all the needs and wants of any healthy, trim, and fit female in her late thirties.
They called her “beautiful,” “lovely,” and “stunningly gorgeous.” Such praise had been lavished upon her all her life from friends, family members, and the men she had been with over the years.
Yet despite the beauty they claimed she possessed, she had been living with a chasm of emptiness within her soul.
So lonely.
God hadn’t meant for her to feel this way, had he?
Years had passed since she was last in this place. Would she still know what to do?
She closed the door of the confessional and sat. A small wooden table supported a single lamp with a dim bulb burning. On the wall hung a single picture of Jesus. His eyes were sad and his face compassionate.
Just under the picture, and also on the table, lay two black, Catholic Bibles, one in English and one in Indonesian. She allowed her fingers to caress both of them. It had been years since she had touched a Bible. Perhaps it was her imagination, but something like a surge of electricity ran down her back as her fingers touched the leather.
She stared at the bell next to the veiled window. Should she ring it? Perhaps she should leave now.
Could she trust that her darkest confidences would remain secret? They would place her head on a chopping block if her confessions got out.
The risk was too great. She stood to leave. But the twisting in her soul forced her back into the chair.
For a few seconds, her hand hovered over the bell.
God, if you are still there, tell me what to do.
No answer.
Her hand struck the bell. The single, brassy chime echoed throughout the room.
From behind the wall, the voice of a man came. “How may I help you?” The voice was warm and friendly.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she said.
“That would make you human, my daughter,” the voice said. “For the holy Scripture proclaims that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. And also, that if we confess our sins, then he is faithful and just, so as to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all iniquity.”
Her eyes found the picture of Jesus on the wall. It was only a picture, but his eyes seemed so real. So alive. “I feel that I need this, Father, that I need purification.”
“You are Catholic?”
“Yes, Father.”