USS Reuben James
The Strait of Malacca
10:18 a.m.
Skipper, forward lookout reports inbound craft! Approaching at high speed at three o’clock! Range one mile!”
“Where?” The skipper of the Reuben James moved to the starboard side of the bridge. Junior officers and enlisted crew members on the bridge were pointing their fingers over the water.
“There! I see it!” the executive officer said.
The captain saw it through his binoculars. The boat crashed through the waves, racing toward his ship, or more likely, toward the tanker he was guarding.
“Issue a no-approach warning, followed by a shot across the bow. If she closes within five hundred yards, take her out. Sound general quarters.”
“General quarters, aye, Captain.” The XO picked up the 1MC, the public address system that broadcast all over the four hundred, forty-five-foot warship. “General quarters! General quarters! Small craft approaching at three o’clock. Possibly hostile. General quarters! Man battle stations!”
Alarm bells rang throughout the ship. Crew members scrambled up and down steel ladders and across the decks to take their positions. The XO’s voice boomed again over the loudspeaker, broadcasting simultaneously over the open maritime radio channels.
“This is the USS Reuben James. To the vessel approaching: turn back or you will be fired upon.”
No reaction.
“Repeat the warning, XO.”
“This is the USS Reuben James. This is your last warning. Turn back or you will be fired upon.”
The boat sliced through the swells, straight toward the ship.
“Weps, fire one warning shot across the bow!”
“One warning shot across her bow! Aye, sir!”
Boom!
White smoke rose from the barrel of the Oto Melara 76/62 naval cannon in the forward section of the ship.
A second later, splash! Water sprayed across the boat’s bow. No reaction.
“Fire another!”
“Fire! Aye, Captain.”
Boom!
This round splashed just in front of the boat. Again, no course change. The roar of the boat’s engines could now be heard on the ship.
“That’s enough,” the captain said. “Open fire! Take her out!”
“Aye, sir.” The weapons officer picked up a telephone to the two gunner’s mates manning the fifty-caliber machine guns mounted along the starboard side of the ship. “Open fire. I repeat, open fire!”
Chit-a-chit-a-chita-a-chita-chita-a-chita-chita-a-chita-chita-a-chita.
Like dueling jackhammers shaking and pounding the deck, the fifty-caliber machine guns sprayed a wall of lead over the sea, splashing a straight trail in the water toward the boat.
Flames and smoke erupted. Boom! The sound of the explosion traveled across the water and rocked the Reuben James. The boat, now a flaming hulk, drifted listlessly on the sea.
“Get a rescue party out there,” the captain said. “Let’s see what we can find.”
Chapter 2
Singapore-Changi International Airport
12:00 p.m.
The United States naval officer, wearing his summer white uniform, plucked his suitcase off the luggage conveyor, turned, and stepped through the sliding doors onto the sidewalk. The whoosh of the warm wind brought a sweet floral smell, mixed with a slight scent of salt air from the sea.
Car horns honked and blared as the officer waved down one of the dozen limousine taxis that were lined up outside.
“Where to, Commander?” the driver asked.
“Sentosa Island, please,” the naval officer said. “Rasa Sentosa Resort.”
“Of course.”
The taxi rolled into the bright, equatorial sunshine, which cast an electrical glow onto grass, palm trees, and pink, red, and yellow flowers.
“Your first trip to Singapore?”
“First trip.” The officer slipped on a pair of Oakley shades. “It’s beautiful. So much greenery.”
“This is East Park. These flowers and these palm trees”-the driver steered with his right hand and gesticulated out the window with his left-“Singapore wishes to impress visitors leaving the airport. Lots of locals come down here to have a picnic or sit and watch the water. We’ll take the East Coast Parkway along the waterfront, then take the causeway across to Sentosa. It’s less than five miles. You’ll enjoy the ride.”
The officer looked to his left as the taxi sped west along the parkway. A few yards beyond the grassy banks, past the seawall, the blue waters of the Singapore Straits sparkled under the midday sun. Three ships, large, black tankers, were passing in the straits just a few hundred yards from them. Two of them, headed to the east, churned low in the water. Probably full of Middle Eastern crude.
“We get navy visitors from many countries,” the cabbie said. “US, UK, Canada. More and more Chinese too.”
Car horns blared. Brake lights flashed.
The cab slowed to a stop in the traffic jam. The officer rolled the window down. A fresh sea breeze blew in from over the strait.
“You look familiar, Commander.” The cabbie’s black eyes darted into the backseat through the rearview mirror. The cab started rolling again.
Oh, great. I can’t get away even here in Singapore. He glanced at the dashboard. A name tag was screwed onto the panel just above the central air conditioning duct. Your Driver-Victor Yang Loon. “So I’ve been told.”
“Have I seen you before?”
“I don’t know.” Just drive.
“Aren’t you Commander Zack Brewer?”
Should I get into this? “My mother calls me Zack. The navy calls me Commander…Actually that’s Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer.”
“I saw you on TV. You were great in that court-martial against those chaplains! A few years ago.” The cabbie, whose eyes were now on the rearview mirror more than on the road, was referring to the case called United States of America v. Mohammed Olajuwon, et al., which brought Zack Brewer international fame when he prosecuted three US Navy Islamic chaplains for treason and murder.
“Thanks,” Zack said.
“And then you were on television again with those other two cases you handled!” This time, he was referring to Zack’s prosecution of two US Navy fighter pilots, both Islamic, who had used their navy jets to launch terrorist strikes-and his successful defense of a US Navy submarine commander on trial for war crimes in Moscow.
“It’s amazing what they put on TV, isn’t it?”
“I am Victor Yang Loon. It is a pleasure, Commander Brewer.”
“The pleasure is mine, Victor,” Zack said.
Yang Loon babbled on. Zack ignored the driver and gazed at the colorful sights of the bustling, tropical Asian city by the water.
The cab swung left, crossing over the causeway from Singapore’s main island to Sentosa Island.
Would she be there? She promised. But it had been so long.
They’d fallen in love. Or so he thought. How was a guy supposed to know? And then, like that, she was gone.
Time.
Distance.
Misunderstandings.
The navy pulling them in different directions.
These warred against him, it seemed. He tried staying in touch in the aftermath, but most of his emails and letters went unanswered in the months that followed. Silence prevailed.
Long-distance relationships were rife with misunderstandings.
He had been the victim of such a misunderstanding. Or, perhaps, of his own idiotic decision making?
He was sent to Australia by the navy to get him out of the limelight. The loneliness at times was heavy.
A British naval officer-a woman stationed at the British embassy in Australia when he was at the US embassy-found out that his birthday was approaching. When the woman asked him to dinner for his birthday, he politely declined.
Then, she asked again.
And again.
And one or two more times.
“Oh, come on, Zack,” she said. “We’ll have a jolly time. No worries. We’ll just go as friends, you know. There’s a great little restaurant over on Marcus Clarke Street,” Leftenant Emily Edwards had said, in that magnetic, cheery British accent reminiscent of Princess Diana. “The Cougarette. The service is slow, but the food is mouthwatering.”