Timeline

Oil Futures and Malacca Strait Attacks

Note: 12-Hour Time Difference Between Washington and Singapore

1. Massive trading activity leading up to limit moves and attacks. 1,000,051 trades of light, sweet crude contracts in 24 hours before 1 A.M. EST [1 P.M. Singapore] [702,289 buy orders “long” position].

2. 1 A.M. EST [1 P.M. Singapore] Trading halted first time because of limit move to $110.

3. 1:20 A.M. EST [1:20 P.M. Singapore] Market resumed; immediate limit move to $120 a barrel. Trading halted second time.

4. Trading resumed at 1:30 A.M. EST [1:30 P.M. Singapore].

Terrorist Attacks in Singapore and Malacca Straits

Between 1:30 A.M. and 3 A.M. EST.

(Between 1:30 P.M. and 3 P.M. Singapore time).

Attempted attack on tanker SeaRiver Baytown; foiled by USS Reuben James.

Attack on Rasa Sentosa Resort, Singapore [shortly before British Prime Minister John Suddath’s advance team scheduled to visit].

Attack on Belgian Tanker Hellespont Alhambra [Singapore Strait].

Attack on Belgian Tanker Hellespont Tara [Singapore Strait].

Attack on Chevron tanker Altair Voyager [Andaman Sea, near northwestern entrance to the Malacca Straits].

5. 3 A.M. EST [3 P.M. Singapore] Price Soars to $140 per barrel. Limit move at 3 A.M. halts trading. Trading halted third time.

6. 3:15 A.M. EST [3:15 P.M. Singapore] Trading Resumes. Price rises and stabilizes at $148 per barrel.

“Thank you, Commander,” Bob said, taking a moment to study the PowerPoint slide for the first time. Beth Murray had done her homework. The timeline, the prices, all seemed on mark.

“As you can see, Mr. President and distinguished members of the council, we start with a massive run on light, sweet crude oil contracts, breaking the record by two hundred thousand, and then at one o’clock this morning, we have our first trading halt. Almost immediately, twenty minutes later, as soon as the market opens, it shuts down again from a second move.

“The market reopens at one-thirty, after having risen twenty dollars per barrel in a period of half an hour.

“Then, in the period between of ninety minutes, between one-thirty and three o’clock Eastern time, which is the afternoon in Singapore and along the Malaccan Straits, we see five attacks in the region. Four of the five attacks are successfully carried out. Four of the five are against supertankers carrying crude oil. Thanks to the US Navy, one attack against the oil tankers is foiled, but three are deadly effective. I’m told that we’ve got an environmental disaster in the Strait of Singapore right now, and there’s no telling what kind of environmental problems might arise from the Andaman Sea attack.

“Now going back to your question, Mr. President.” Robert turned and looked at the NSC members, still studying the PowerPoint chart. “While we don’t have direct proof that someone out there was actually buying futures contracts based upon some type of foreknowledge that these attacks would occur, I suppose my answer is this: as an intelligence officer, given the rapid sequence of events within this timeframe, I would definitely be concerned.”

There was silence.

“I have a question,” National Security Advisor Cynthia Hewitt spoke up.

“Yes, ma’am,” Robert said.

“Lieutenant, how much money was made on all this last night?”

“Goodness.” He rubbed his chin. “The profits are staggering.”

“How so?” Hewitt asked.

“Well, let’s say, for example, that someone purchased one hundred thousand contracts just before the beginning of the run. If you bought one contract just before the run, and sold when crude leveled out at one hundred and forty-eight dollars this morning, you would make a gross profit of forty thousand dollars on one contract. Now remember, more than one million contracts were traded in the period.

“But for the sake of being conservative, I’m just giving an example of a hundred thousand contracts, on the assumption that some terrorist organization could have swung a purchase of this amount.” He looked at Beth Murray. “Commander, could you please switch back to the overhead?”

“By all means.”

Robert took the grease pencil.

“Okay. Let’s do the math. One hundred thousand contracts times a forty-thousand-dollar profit per contract.”

100,000 contracts

x $40,000 $4,000,000,000

“Now if I’ve done my math right, nine zeros is four billion, count it, four billion dollars. And that’s on one hundred thousand contracts. Remember, more than a million contracts traded, mostly buying low and selling high. So when you considered that more than a million contracts traded, that’s probably at least forty billion dollars made in one swoop alone.”

Shocked murmuring came from the members of the council.

Then, silence.

Admiral Jones spoke up. “Someone could buy a fleet of two hundred B-1 bombers for that kind of money. The pricetag for the B-1 was two hundred million a pop.” The admiral scratched his chin. “Or they could buy a couple of B-2 Stealth Bombers.”

Silence.

“Or nukes,” Secretary of Defense Erwin Lopez added.

“That’s right, Mr. Secretary,” Admiral Jones said. “They could buy a ton of nuclear weapons for forty billion bucks.” The admiral ran his hand through his thinning hairline. “If somebody was willing to sell. And my guess is for that kind of money, they could find a seller.”

More silence. The president stood and reached his hand out to Lieutenant Molster. They clasped hands and the president said, “Lieutenant, I personally appreciate your service to the navy and to our country.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

Residence of General Perkasa

Jakarta, Indonesia

3:00 a.m.

With the excited voices and sounds of clinking glass intermixed with the droll hum of the large ceiling fan over their bed, Kristina thought that she had been dreaming. Perhaps one of the servants had neglected to turn the television off.

She rolled to her right and reached out for the warm body of her man. When she felt only the fluff of a pillow, her eyes opened. Light seeped under the door from the hallway outside.

The voices were not from the television. They were real. Some were familiar voices.

She felt for her robe, stood, pulled it over her shoulders, and tied it. She put on the slippers that he had bought her and crept across the dark floor toward the door.

Laughing. Cackling. Backslapping. The sounds of a drunken boys’ club.

“The General,” as he demanded to be called, was among the voices booming outside the doorway. His friend and sidekick, Dr. Budi, was another. The others she did not recognize.

Perhaps she should just get dressed now, slip out, and go home.

But what if he discovered she had left without his permission?

Suppose he became angry and tracked her down? He was already one of the most powerful men in the nation, next to the president himself. His minions could find her. And where could she go except to her small, government-subsidized apartment in South Jakarta?

How would she support herself without his help?

Her meager income as a ceramic maker along the streets of South Jakarta had ended in the name of the governor’s “urban beautification” project. Flower vendors, ceramic makers, poor women embroidering on the roadside for visiting foreigners who offered pennies for their handiwork-they had become a “public nuisance” in the governor’s eyes. The police had showed up in riot gear with billy clubs and high-pressure water hoses. “You are operating without legal licenses,” a policeman with a bullhorn announced. “Leave now, or you will be removed.”

A moment later, a torrential blast of pressurized water knocked them off their feet and swooshed the fruits of their labor onto the sidewalk and into the gutters.