The ship’s crew was already abuzz with rumors. Still, even the crew did not yet know. That too would soon change.
“Now hear this.” A voice from the ship’s loudspeaker system echoed across the steel decks of the frigate. “This is the captain speaking. You, the officers and crew of the KRI Oswald Siahaan, are privileged to have been selected to be a part of a monumental military mission that will change the course of our great nation forever.”
At those words, Captain Taplus could do nothing but smile.
The commanding officer continued. “Rumors have floated around the ship for the last few hours that Indonesia is about to detonate her first nuclear device. Until now, we have been unable to confirm or deny such rumors.”
A pause. Goosebumps crawled over Taplus as the red-and-white Indonesian flag flapped furiously in the wind off the stern of the frigate.
“But now,” the captain continued, “I am pleased to report that those rumors are true. And you are about to be witnesses to history.” Cheering erupted. The captain continued as the cheering subsided. “That test shall commence in less than two minutes, on Gag Island, approximately twenty miles to our north. In just a few moments, we shall begin the final countdown to detonation.
“For your own protection, however, do not look in the direction of the north. I repeat. Do not look to the north, or you run the risk of blindness.
“I now pass the microphone to our executive officer, who shall commence the countdown. Time to detonation is just over one minute.”
A slight pause. Then another man’s voice, slightly higher in tone, came over the loudspeaker system. “This is the executive officer. Stand by for final sixty-second countdown to detonation. On my mark.”
A slight delay.
“T-minus sixty seconds…fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-six…”
Hassan’s heart fired like a machine gun.
“T-minus forty-five seconds. Do not look off the starboard. Fortytwo, forty-one, forty…
“T-minus thirty seconds…
“T-minus twenty-five seconds…”
USS Port Royal
Two miles southwest of Gag Island
4:45 p.m.
As Eddie Atwater stepped out onto the starboard deck to finish his cigarette, the afternoon sky erupted into a light a thousand times more blinding than the sun.
A thunderous blast rocked the ship two seconds later. Atwater grabbed for the side railings, but rushing winds flipped him through the air like a rag doll in a dryer, flinging him sideways and smashing his skull onto a steel hatch.
An explosion of bursting glass from the windows in the bridge slashed crewmen, who were now stumbling over themselves.
Atwater fell to the deck, pinned there by the raging winds. Blood gushed from his mouth and skull, as the mighty warship heeled to its left under the force of the raging winds.
A steel radar shaft snapped like a twig, falling and decapitating a petty officer clinging desperately to a guardrail. This would be the last sight Eddie Atwater would ever witness.
On the bridge of the Port Royal, Commander Roth Neal, his face a mask of blood, struggled to save his ship. Pulling himself up over groaning bodies, he managed to peer out over the starboard toward the sea. The sun had exploded on the horizon, and above it, a horrifying mushroom cloud plumed to the heavens. In the water between the Port Royal and the mushroom cloud, the tanker Lady of Amsterdam was completely aflame, its oil having been ignited by the blast.
Was this really happening? Was he living a nightmare?
The thought struck him that he had failed to carry out the orders of the commander, Seventh Fleet, to “protect that tanker at all costs.” A sick feeling flooded him.
He had failed in his mission.
He had failed his men.
Port Royal listed further to her left. Soon she would be in danger of capsizing. Neal slid back down from the port ledge, scrambling across more bodies to reach for a fire extinguisher. “Dear Jesus, save my men!”
The Oswald Siahaan
Twenty miles southwest of Gag Island
4:45 p.m.
Do not look. Do not look!”
The voice bellowed over the frigate’s loudspeaker system as the horizon lit up like the midday sun. Even still, the sheer, uncontrolled adrenaline that shot through every cell in Hassan’s body would not allow him to heed the warnings.
His face…his body…his eyes, all turned to the north, as if compelled by an unknown force to pay homage to a great god rising in the sky at the horizon’s edge.
The mushroom rising into the heavens in the distance was indeed…somehow…godlike…somehow divine.
Awed silence enveloped the crew of the ship at the stunning sight. And then, moments later, rolling waves of deafening thunder boomed across the water…shaking the ship…As if a great voice were commanding, “On your knees!”
“Yes, lord,” Hassan said, as he fell to his knees, his eyes glued to the northern horizon.
Others fell to their knees at the awesome roar of the thunder.
And then, wind. Strong winds blew from the north.
The scientists had told them that the winds would blow, but this…the light, the thunder, the wind.
“Control yourself, Hassan!” he commanded himself. Becoming overwhelmed by this near-religious experience was foolish. By now, the transition of power was shifting to General Perkasa, if it had not already occurred. Hassan was about to become the youngest general in Indonesian history. He was a future president!
Hassan rose to his feet, confidently. He would find the captain of the ship and inform him to clear the helicopter for takeoff.
Now was his time for destiny. He would return to Jakarta in triumphant glory.
The White House
4:15 a.m.
Everybody in place, Arnie?” The president, along with Arnie Brubaker and flanked on each side by two Secret Service agents, approached the door leading into the Situation Room.
“The entire NSC is present except for the secretary of state, sir.”
“Where’s Secretary Mauney?”
“San Diego, sir. Summit with the Mexican foreign minister at the Hotel Del.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“Do you want him back in Washington?”
“Maybe,” Mack said. “We’ll see. Everybody else ready to go?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Let’s do it.”
“Yes, sir.” Arnie opened the double doors leading into the Situation Room. “Ladies and gentlemen, the president.”
“Be seated,” Mack demanded. “Let’s get down to business. Secretary Lopez”-Mack looked at the secretary of defense-“what’s happening in Indonesia?”
“Not good, Mr. President. Things are developing rapidly. Admiral Jones will present the military briefing.”
“Very well,” Mack said, and turned to his Joint Chiefs’ chairman. “What do we know, Admiral?”
“Mr. President”-Admiral Jones looked down at his wrist watch-“approximately one hour and fifteen minutes ago, a bomb detonated at Merdeka Palace, which is the official residence and office of the Indonesian president. Chaos is reigning right now at Merdeka Square, just across the street. Emergency vehicles have surrounded the palace. Helicopters are buzzing overhead.
“The US embassy confirms this situation, Mr. President, and has confirmed that Ambassador Stacks and his naval attaché, Lieutenant Commander Diane Colcernian, were scheduled to meet with President Santos to brief him on information that Commanders Colcernian and Brewer had learned concerning possible Indonesian involvement in the Malacca Strait attacks. Mr. President, Brewer and Colcernian had discovered that at least one member of the Indonesian Navy was involved in the attack that was foiled by USS Reuben James.
“Ambassador Stacks and Commander Colcernian were scheduled to meet with President Santos at two o’clock local time there in Jakarta, right about the time the bomb went off. Sir, we’ve not heard from the president, the ambassador, or Commander Colcernian. We don’t know if they’re dead or alive.