The Malacca Conspiracy Read Online Free

Twelve-thirty. Nothing to do but wait.
    A whiff of alluring cologne took her focus off the terminal. A smiling, olive-skinned gentleman stood behind the reservations desk.
    “May I help you, sir?” she asked.
    “You don’t look Singaporean.” The gentleman’s eyes danced at her. “Australian? South African?”
    His friendly expression and sparkling black eyes exuded an immediate, spellbinding charm.
    Was he Indian? Pakistani? Middle Eastern? He sported an amazing British accent, wherever he was from. And the white suit enhanced his dark, handsome features.
    “I’m British,” she said, with pride in her voice.
    “That’s a brave admission considering those lunatics out there.” He nodded toward the hotel entrance, with a dubious half-grin.
    “Yes, well…” She glanced outside at the picketers, then back at the man. “Could I help you with something, sir?”
    “I’m Ahmed.” He cleared his voice. “Edward Ahmed. Doctor Edward Ahmed. I’m here for check-in.”
    “Let’s see if I can find you, Dr. Ahmed.” Ashlyn clicked the Enter key. “Got it.” She looked at him. “Do you have a passport that we could copy?”
    “Certainly.” He handed her his Yemeni passport. The name and photograph matched.
    “I’m sorry, Doctor, but we don’t have any rooms yet. Check-in is at three. I can call you if something opens earlier.”
    “Fine,” he said. “I could take a stroll on the beach. Where may I leave my luggage?”
    “The bellman will store your bags here in the lobby area until your room is ready.”
    “Fabulous.” The man’s black eyes sparkled. “I look forward to seeing you again, Miss…I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.”
    “Claire. Ashlyn Claire.”
    “Yes, Miss Claire, and may God save the Queen.” The man turned and walked off with a smile on his face.
    Or was it a sneer?
    No matter, Ashlyn had work to do. The first members of the prime minister’s advance team were due any minute.
    USS Reuben James
The Strait of Malacca
    10:18 a.m.
    S kipper, 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