The Malacca Conspiracy by Don Brown Page A

is the US Navy!”
    “Skipper! Jump in the water!” a voice called from below.
    Despite the heat, he felt frozen, alone on the great vessel that was under his command. A captain must never abandon his ship, even at the moment of death.
    “Jump, Skipper!”
    He looked back toward the flames.
    And then, he saw them.
    Dana and Laura.
    Their red hair was blowing in the wind. Teardrops beaded in their blue eyes. Was it a hallucination? He heard that people had hallucinations before death. Or maybe they were angels. Maybe angels were real.
    “We love you, Daddy,” Dana said.
    “Daddy, please come home,” said Laura.
    The smoke was affecting his breathing. His mind was playing tricks on him.
    “Jump!”
    He stepped onto the ship’s ledge. “God, let me see my girls again.” He leapt into the air, his stomach in his throat, as he flew down, down, toward the dark waters below.
    USS Boise
The Andaman Sea
    3:02 p.m.
    W earing his wash khaki uniform and a navy blue ball cap with the emblem of his submarine and the initials “CO” stitched in gold on the front, Commander Graham Hardison walked across the control room and put his hand on the shoulder of the enlisted man who was seated at a control panel just in front of the skipper’s seat.
    “Got any more of that black stuff, Mr. COB?” Mr. COB was the acronym that submariners often used to refer to the chief of the boat, usually the senior enlisted man on board a US Navy submarine. In this case, the COB was Radioman Senior Chief Fred Gimler, a tall, balding South Dakotan who was approaching thirty years in the submarine service.
    “Yessir, Captain,” the COB said. “Just brought a pot up from the galley.” Gimler turned around with a knowing grin.
    “I thought I saw you tiptoeing onto my bridge with steaming contraband in hand,” Hardison joked.
    “Guilty as charged, Captain.” The COB twisted the plastic top off the insulated thermos. The scent of fresh coffee permeated the control room, and Commander Hardison felt a jolt to his senses just from the scent of it. “Your mug, sir?”
    Hardison held his white, porcelain coffee mug, with coffee acid rings circling the bottom—a badge of honor among submariners—out to the chief. “Mug looks a little clean, sir.” The COB grinned as steaming, black, battery-acid strength coffee oozed into the skipper’s mug.
    “Maybe in my next life, I’ll come back as a navy chief, Mr. COB,” Hardison joked. “That way, I’ll always make sure there’s something growing in the bottom of my mug.”
    “Trust me, Skipper, the pay’s better in your seat,” the COB chuckled.
    Hardison laughed. “Thanks for reminding me, Chief.” He took a refreshing sip of the strong stuff. The kick was immediate. “Ahh. Good stuff.”
    Hardison returned to the captain’s chair. “XO, report our updated position, please.”
    “Aye, Captain,” the executive officer said. “Currently eighty-three miles east of Nicobar Island. Speed ten knots,” the XO said. “Course zero-nine-zero degrees.”
    “Very well,” Hardison said. “Steady as she goes.”
    “Steady as she goes. Aye, Captain.”
    “Conn. Radio.” The radio officer’s voice blared over the intercom.
    “Radio. Conn. Whatcha got?”
    “Sir, we’ve got an all-frequency distress call from USS Ingraham.”
    “The Ingraham?” Dear Lord. The Ingraham was one of the US Navy frigates assigned to tanker escort duty in the Malaccan Strait. “Don’t tell me another terrorist attack.”
    “That’s correct, sir.”
    Hardison sloshed his coffee. “What is the position of the Ingraham?”
    “The Ingraham is not under attack. She’s relaying a distress call for the tanker Altair Voyager. The tanker’s on fire in the Andaman Sea, near the western entrance to the Strait of Malacca. She’s taking on water. They’ve abandoned ship. Two choppers from the Ingraham are in the area, but rescue efforts are being hampered by a smoke cloud. They need assistance on the surface,