“The lying son of a-,” Admiral Jones blurted.
“Shhh…I want to hear this.” The president held his hand up, commanding silence in the room.
“In fact,” the general continued with a dour look on his face, “while Indonesia had absolutely no control over what has happened in America today, and would have no control over any such future tragedies, know that our sympathies go out to the families of the lost.
“Who, then, does have control over this? And who has control over the prevention of such tragedies and such massive disasters and massive losses of life in the future?
“Why, the answer is simple. President Mack Williams and the American government.”
He banged his fist on the table, as if he were Nikita Khrushchev before the United Nations.
“And how can the American government protect its people from such carnage again?” An arrogant smile crossed his face. “This is very simple, my friends. End your support of Israel. Go to the United Nations, an institution located in your largest city, and demand withdrawal of all recognition of the Zionist state. Recognize only the government of Palestine. Join the world in demanding justice for those who have been displaced by Zionist murderers.”
Another broad smile. “As I said, Indonesia has no control over this. But our intelligence has learned that if this is not done, tragedy will strike America again. Soon. Another city, perhaps multiple cities, will face the same fate as Philadelphia. We share this intelligence with you for your own benefit and protection. Our intelligence has shown that your time is running out.
“While you have less than twenty-four hours to introduce and support these resolutions before the United Nations, your president must take decisive action even sooner.
“There must be a sign of good faith. We have been told that the president of the United States, must, within four hours of the completion of this broadcast, appear on television to renounce the Zionist state and announce the intention of the United States to support these resolutions in the United Nations.”
Admiral Jones shook his fist. “He’s just reduced his own time frame.”
The tinhorn was staring intently now into the camera, his voice reeking confidence, arrogance, and authority. “Four hours! That’s your deadline, Mr. President. Do the right thing. Denounce evil, and save the lives of millions of your own.”
A satisfying pause. “Good day.”
The screen went blue. Then the words Jakarta Indonesia 1225 A.M. blinked rapidly in white on the screen. Then, nothing. The screen went blank.
Mack looked at his watch and quickly calculated the time. It was 12:26 P.M., Washington time.
“By four-thirty, this guy’s gonna blow another city,” he said.
“We’ve gotta take that guy out,” the secretary of defense said.
“No kidding,” Mack said. “Find me a way to do it.” The president’s eyes locked upon his secretary of defense. “Now.”
United States Embassy
Singapore
12:50 a.m.
For Kristina, the night was a living whirlwind of wildly swinging emotions. Her body had undergone the cold rush of fear from running for her life in Jakarta, to the uncertainty of having to beg for refuge from Father Ramon, to the excitement and nervousness of flying for the first time in her life. And now this.
Like most Indonesians who were too poor to afford international travel, Kristina had never left her country. For that matter, she had never even left the island of Java.
Now, she not only found herself mesmerized by the millions of exciting lights of Singapore, but also her eyes fixed upon another colorful object in the night that was sending chills up her spine.
The flag of the United States-flapping gently on a pole under two powerful searchlights, its deep red, white, and blue signifying the hope of the free world, and glowing almost like a halo against the starspangled Singaporean sky.
“This is the US embassy,” announced the Catholic priest who was driving the black SUV carrying the nuncio, along with Kristina and Father Ramon.
The SUV pulled to a stop on Napier Road, just in front of a large iron gate that was guarded by two American soldiers, wearing dark blue jackets and light blue pants with white caps.
“These are US Marines,” the driver said, looking over his shoulder at Kristina and Father Ramon. “They will lead us into the embassy.”
The black gate swung open, and the marine who had walked out of the embassy motioned the driver forward. The SUV rolled inside the gates, and when the gates were closed, the marine opened the back left door where the nuncio was sitting. The marine flashed a sharp salute. “Mr. Ambassador.”
“Good evening, officer,” the nuncio said.
“Good evening, sir. If you and your party would follow me, please, sir.”
The nuncio stepped out first, followed by the driver, and then Kristina and Father Ramon. The marine led them down a walkway past the spotlighted flag.
The double doors to the embassy swung open. Another marine was waiting just inside the doors, also in a snappy blue uniform. As this marine was leading them down a marble hallway, under sparkling crystal chandeliers, Kristina could not help but notice how well-chiseled and handsome these American marines looked.
“Right through here, Mr. Ambassador.” The second marine pointed to the left, and they stepped through a large doorway into an ornate, brightly lit conference room. A very large wooden table surrounded by ten black leather swiveling chairs was in the center of the room, and at the end of the table the US flag was erected in a stand. “Ambassador Griffith will be right with you, sir,” the marine said, then stepped out of the room.
“Very nice,” Father Ramon remarked, his eyes taking in the room.
“The Americans still have the best facilities,” the nuncio said.
“Good evening, Nuncio.” Kristina looked around and saw a distin-guished-looking man with silver hair, presumably American, walking through the doors from the hallway.
“Ambassador Griffith,” the nuncio said, as he stood and extended his hand to the American ambassador.
“Please be seated,” the ambassador said. “I understand that you’ve uncovered some sensitive information of urgent importance.”
“Mr. Ambassador,” the nuncio said. “This is Father Ramon from Indonesia”-the nuncio extended his hand toward the priest-“and this is one of his new parishioners, Kristina Wulandari.” She felt nervous when the nuncio touched her shoulder. “These are extraordinary circumstances. The Holy See has granted asylum to them both.”
“I see,” Ambassador Griffith said.
He nodded at Kristina. “Kristina knows this General Perkasa, this fellow with the new atomic bomb, over in Indonesia.”
“Yes, unfortunately, we have become aware of him.” The ambassador flashed a look of disgust.
The nuncio continued. “She has come across some computer files that we believe will be of urgent and extreme interest to your government. That is why we have requested this meeting.”
“Urgent and extreme,” the ambassador said, parroting the words of the nuncio. “How so?”
“Mr. Ambassador, the file on this memory stick”-the nuncio held up the stick in his hand-“that was taken by Kristina from the general’s residence, shows evidence that the Indonesian junta is responsible for today’s attack on Philadelphia.”
“Really?” A stunned look came over the ambassador’s face.
“Yes, Mr. Ambassador. And not only that, but it looks like they are preparing attacks on two other American cities.”
“Which cities?”
“First, San Francisco. Then Washington,” Father Ramon spoke up. “My apologies,” he added, realizing that he had spoken out of turn.
The nuncio spoke again. “We brought a laptop if you would like to see for yourself, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Yes, please,” Ambassador Griffith said.
Chapter 19
Bogor, Indonesia