South China Sea
August 26
The pilot was flying a direct course for the Raja Isteri Pengiran Anak Saleha Hospital in the capital of Brunei. It was the best-equipped facility with the most experienced surgeons.
Robert tapped the pilot on the shoulder. When he glanced up, Robert was shaking his head. The pilot’s face registered sorrow upon realizing that Eu-meh was dead. He had not known her well by any measure, but she had always treated the members of her security detail with fairness and respect. On a few occasions, Eu-meh had spoken to him directly, asking about his family and complimenting his loyalty and dedication.
“We’re going to the palace. That was her home, where her family is.”
“But shouldn’t we deliver the body to the hospital? Isn’t that the procedure we should follow?”
“There’s nothing the medical staff can do for her now. At least we can offer the dignity of placing her in the mosque where her family can pay their respects and offer their prayers.”
Retreating from the cockpit, Robert removed some shortbread cookies and a couple bottles of water from a locker, offering the snack to Peter. “I’m going to find her,” Peter said.
“Come on, have something to eat,” he said, ignoring the comment. Peter stared back vacantly. “Well, if you’re not hungry, how about Diesel?”
The red pit bull was looking longingly at the offered snack, a long viscous drop of drool hanging from the side of his closed mouth. He extended a paw placing it gently on Peter’s thigh.
Peter tore open the plastic wrapping and offered the cookies to Diesel, who eagerly devoured the food. Then, cupping one hand, he slowly poured water into the make-shift bowl and Diesel drank his fill—nearly the entire bottle of water. Peter finished the remainder.
“What are you going to do?” Robert asked.
“The way I see it, Captain Rei is our hall pass, our ticket. He will gain us an audience with the Director of Security.”
“They might just kill us.”
Peter shrugged. “Not likely. Whoever is in charge will want answers. They will want to know what we know, so they can cover up their actions.”
“You sound pretty confident.”
“It’s not my first rodeo.”
“Okay. What do you want me to do?”
Peter motioned with his chin toward the cockpit. “See if the co-pilot can put you on the radio. You want to speak to any reporter you can reach, preferably not in Brunei. Maybe Singapore or Manilla.”
“Time to go public?”
“Yeah. Whoever you reach, tell them the complete story. But mostly that Eu-meh was murdered. With this information out there, the Director of Security will have to learn what we know.”
“Got it.” Robert left Peter to his thoughts while he had a brief conversation with the co-pilot. Soon he had a radio connection to someone at the Straits Times, a prominent English-language newspaper in Singapore. After two transfers, he was finally speaking with a journalist. After another ten minutes, he’d retold the events that transpired onboard the Royal Seeker, the missile launch and destruction of the control room, and finally, the murder of the Sultan’s sister. He finished by telling the reporter they were en route to the Sultan’s palace, Istana Nurul Iman, to lay the body at rest in the mosque.
Ever grateful for the scoop, the reporter assured Robert she would be on the first flight to Bandar Seri Begawan to cover the event first hand and then ended the call.
While Robert was on the radio, Peter typed a text message to Commander Jim Nicolaou using the commercial encryption app on his phone. Short and to the point, he reported they’d destroyed the missile launch control room on the Royal Seeker, rendering the platform useless. He pressed the send button, knowing they were over the ocean and not within cellular range. But the text message would be queued to send automatically once he did have a signal. With that problem solved, I can focus on finding Jade.
Having prepped the reporter, Robert returned to his seat to update Peter. “The story should break in a few hours.”
“Good. Now that the Royal Seeker is no longer in business, whoever has Jade should let her go.”
“You’re assuming she’s still alive.”
Peter nodded.
“And if she’s dead?”
“Then we force them to turn over her body so she can be joined in burial with Eu-meh.”
Peter’s hand once again found the grip of the Glock pistol tucked in his belt. The movement did not escape Robert’s notice.
s
The equatorial sun shone brilliantly off both golden domes as the Airbus H160 helicopter, now low on fuel, settled down on the lawn before the mosque entrance. From the air, Peter was able to appreciate the enormity of the Sultan’s palace—over two million square feet, nearly 1800 rooms, five swimming pools, and a banquet hall that could seat 5,000 guests. Closed to the public except for a few days each year when visitors were allowed to enter the banquet hall and the mosque, Istana Nurul Iman palace was the perfect location for a clandestine operation.
A group of palace guards, all wearing their distinctive black berets, was approaching the helicopter in two electric open-air vehicles that looked like side-by-side ATVs. Peter had no doubt their approach was monitored and the palace guard alerted just before the aircraft landed.
Robert exited first, Eu-meh’s covered body supported by his strong arms. He didn’t wait, instead moving directly for the entrance, two oversized doors constructed of tropical wood with heavy, polished gold hardware.
Peter directed Captain Rei out of the helicopter, one hand on his shirt collar and the other hand pressing the pistol into his spine. Diesel was hugging his master’s side. They only made it halfway to the mosque when the approaching guards opened fire. Bullets sizzled through the air, and Peter encouraged Rei to move faster. But with his injured foot, a rapid skip-step was the best he could do.
The pilot and co-pilot took defensive positions on either side of the aircraft, using their submachine guns to hold the palace guards at bay. With their lives at risk, the guards adjusted their aim to the two aviators, and Peter with his hostage pushed through the doors, gaining distance from the gunfire.
He expected to enter a large, open room but instead found they were in a tiled courtyard, the ablutions area. A fountain was in the center of the courtyard. Just ahead, he saw Robert pass through another doorway, and Peter urged Rei forward.
“Please,” Rei protested. “My foot; I need to sit and rest.”
Peter pushed harder with the barrel at Rei’s back. “Keep moving.”
Once through the second door, they entered the open prayer hall. It was an enormous space without a single supporting pillar, the gold dome serving as the roof. Tiles in all colors, but mostly shades of blue, from turquoise to cobalt, covered the walls and ceiling. Gold tiles set in framed sections along the walls repeated what Peter assumed were passages from the Quran. The floor was covered with small, intricately-woven rugs, all arranged in rigorous geometric order. Two sneakers had been kicked randomly at the side. Peter watched as Robert, now shoeless, crossed the floor aiming directly for a semicircular niche at the far wall, just to the side of a stairway that extended upwards.
Robert kneeled before the niche and gently laid the body down. He positioned Eu-meh so her head was just within the opening. Still kneeling, Robert bowed his head and folded his hands on his lap.
Peter approached silently, his grip on Captain Rei still firm. After a long pause, Robert stood. He turned to discover Peter standing nearby with Diesel sitting at his side.
“That’s called a mihrab,” Robert said, indicating the domed opening in the wall. “It points toward Mecca.”
Peter understood the symbolism of the position in which Robert had laid Eu-meh at rest.
“You shouldn’t wear shoes in here,” he explained. “And I don’t think the Imam would approve of a dog sitting on one of the prayer rugs.”
The sound of sporadic gunfire was heard even through the thick doors. Peter glanced at his feet, and then said, “I don’t think we should wait around to speak with the Imam. Time to go.”
Robert slipped on his sneakers and they left the prayer hall the way they’d entered. They were met in the courtyard by the co-pilot. “This way!” he shouted and waved his arm as further encouragement.
Passing through the outer door, Peter asked about the pilot. “He’s dead, next to the helicopter,” the co-pilot answered. Scattered across the lawn between the helicopter and the mosque, and then farther out from the helicopter to the two electric open-top vehicles, were a half dozen dead guards. Peter dashed to the nearest and grabbed the radio.
“Follow me,” Robert ordered, and the group moved along a covered walkway. “There’s a door up here. We can enter the palace. It’s too dangerous out here in the open.”
By now Rei had gotten pretty good at his skip-shuffle, and the bleeding had mostly stopped. Robert reached for the doorknob and was surprised to find it locked. He placed the barrel of his Glock where the latch entered the doorframe and pulled the trigger twice. The wood splintered around the strike plate, and the door opened without any resistance.
They entered a service corridor. It was lit by an overhead track of recessed lights. Doors lined both sides, and another door lay ahead at the end.
“Kitchen on the left, storage and utilities on the right,” Robert explained. They pressed forward, and exited into an ornately-decorated room. A wide stairway, covered in red carpet and with gilded bannisters and railing, was to the right. Overhead hung a crystal chandelier that Peter estimated was at least fifteen feet in diameter. Suspended thirty feet overhead was the gilded ceiling.
Around the perimeter of the room were gold-framed mirrors alternating with portraits of past sultans. Narrow tables along the walls held vases filled with a rich variety of brightly colored tropical blooms.
“The banquet hall is through those doors,” Robert indicated the pair of double doors to the left. As if on cue, the doors burst open and ten soldiers wearing black berets pushed through, rifles pointed at the American intruders and their hostage. Robert instantly raised his Glock.
The co-pilot fired first. A short burst from the hip. His shots struck four guards, killing three and wounding one. But the return fire was equally deadly, and the aviator was cut down under a hail of lead.
Silence ensued. It was a standoff.
The guards parted, allowing an officer to pass through the group—Pehin Anak Shah, the Director of Security. He removed his sidearm from the black leather holster on his hip. “Robert. I am disappointed.” He turned to face Peter. “And you, Mr. Savage. You seem to be a troublemaker.”
“I’ve been called worse,” Peter said over Rei’s shoulder. Diesel rumbled with a guttural growl. “On me. Stay.” He issued the command softly so as not to draw unwanted attention to the canine. Diesel silenced, but licked his lips—a display of anxiety and distress.
The Security Director glanced at the wounded soldier, and with a nod of his head, instructed a guard to assist the injured man and the two of them left. He then locked eyes with Captain Rei. “I did not expect to see you here, Captain.” Rei’s eyes were wide in fright. “And what conclusion should I draw from your presence?”
“Please,” Rei pleaded. “I had no choice. They forced me—”
“Silence!” For a few moments, the room was deadly still. And then Pehin spoke again. “I know you have failed. We tracked your missile, of course, and saw the instant it failed to respond to the homing signal. Our satellite imagery shows the American aircraft carrier is still afloat. In fact, it is still quite functional.”
“But,” Rei stammered, “They had explosives. They destroyed the instruments.”
Pehin raised his pistol and fired. The bullet struck Rei in the leg and passed through, just missing Peter. The captain suddenly slumped and slipped from Peter’s grasp. The Security Director fired twice more, both bullets hitting Rei in the center of his chest.
“He became an unacceptable liability the moment he failed his mission,” Pehin said. His pistol was leveled at Peter. “Now, lower your gun, or you will be the next to die.”