“We gain ground daily, my son Harconan. We gain hope as well, thanks to you. I
trust things go well for you in turn.”
“No. Things do not go well for me, my father. My friend Lo is dead and my cause
has failed.”
“I cannot see my son failing. How may the people of the Morning Star help you?”
“My failing is of my own doing, father. I have let others steal my dream and I
must end my fight. But my defeat can be the victory for the Morning Star
movement and an end to your fighting. There are two other men standing by on
this channel who wish to speak with you. Will you listen to their words?”
“If that is your wish, my son.”
“It is. May I present to you President Kediri of Indonesia and Secretary of State
Harrison Van Linden, the senior diplomat of the United States of America.
Gentlemen, this is Chief Akima of the Asmat people, a member of the ruling
council of the Revolutionary Government of the Free Papuan Republic. Mr.
President …”
“I greet you, Chief Akima.”
“I greet you as well, Mr. President. I have wished to speak with you for a long
time.”
“Perhaps we should have spoken long before. Chief Akima, I wish to negotiate a
cease-fire on Irian Jaya between the Morning Star Republic and Indonesia and
the withdrawal of all Indonesian military forces and governmental
administration. This withdrawal to commence immediately.”
“I see, Mr. President. And you, Mr. Secretary?”
“Chief Akima, the United States wishes to discuss its formal diplomatic
recognition of the Free Papuan Republic. We are also prepared to discuss
sponsoring your membership within the United Nations.”
Dead air.
“KGKR calling KGGX … did you copy that, my father?”
“I am still here, my son. Give an old man a moment to weep.”
The Sunda Strait
2035 Hours; Zone Time, November 8, 2008
The Army of God’s Sacred Vengeance set sail aboard two fishing luggers and a dive boat stolen from the Turtle Beach resort.
Fate had been alternately kind and cruel to Mohammed Sinar. First there had come the money and arms from his mysterious benefactor and Sinar’s star had ascended once more. He had all of the power and respect that could be purchased with a handful of rupiahs and a truckload of AK-47s. His foes, at least his immediate ones, had fled in terror and throats had been presented for his heel to rest upon.
For a time, being the Flaming Sword of Allah and a Liberator of the People had been a pleasant mode of existence. But the gifting of arms and funding had not been repeated and money, ammunition and ideas again ran low.
Events on Sumatra had also taken an ominous turn. The war had become a true war between true armies. Ketalaman the usurper and Kediri the ruler had their jaws locked in a death struggle, and there was no room left on the island for pretenders to power. To side with the old government meant being stoned to death, yet to side with the rebels meant actually having to fight. Neither alternative was particularly attractive to Muhammad Sinar.
As a foreign wise man had once phrased it, “It was time to get the Hell out of Dodge.”
The call by the Muslim radicalist leadership for reinforcements for Ketalaman’s Army on Java had given Sinar his opportunity. Backed by the bloodstained words of the Mullahs, he had rallied some threescore of his followers to battle, pledging to bring God’s justice to the hated infidels and their treasure to his troops. Procuring what small craft were available, the Army of God’s Vengeance had loaded the remnants of their arsenal aboard and taken off for the battlefront.
However, Mohammed Sinar had absolutely no intention of landing on Java. He had a plan of his own. On the pretext of “establishing a base”, he would seek out one of the smaller, outer islands, some pleasant little place with a village or two full of helpless workers to cow and nubile women to enjoy. There, Sinar would establish his own personal kingdom and await developments in the outside world.
Tonight, Sinar’s little fleet was making the dash across the Selat Sunda, the narrow stretch of sea that separated Sumatra from Java. He’d had some concern about this passage; they would be passing close to the actual zone of conflict and it would be an open water run with no convenient coastline to offer concealment and escape. Accordingly, Sinar had ordered all lights extinguished and all hands, or at least those who were not seasick, to man the rails, armed and ready for trouble.
And yet, the better part of the crossing had been made and nothing had happened. The seas were low and easy under a starlit sky and they seemed to share the strait only with the gaunt craggy bulk of Anak Krakatoa, the dim ruddy glow from the volcano’s crater underlighting its steam plume.
Mohammed Sinar was just beginning to relax when, with no warning, the darkness coalesced beside his dive boat flagship. Three black-hulled pinisi had come sweeping out of nowhere. With their gaff rigs reefed and running on their auxiliary diesels, they paralleled the course of Sinar’s ragged flotilla. Moving with an ominous lazy precision, each dark schooner kept exact pace with one of Sinar’s craft, like a barracuda considering its prey.
“Who are you and where do you think you’re going?” an insolently casual voice called from out of the night.
Sinar could see the eyes of his men glinting wide and frightened along the rail. At best, they were not the greatest of warriors on land, and they were less so at sea. Yet Sinar knew that he must maintain his face in front of them for they were all he had left.
“We are the Army of God’s Sacred Vengeance, in the service of Allah. The Prophet has spoken and we sail
to avenge the spilled blood of our Javanese brothers.”
The voice in the darkness sounded amused. “No you do not. Turn about and go home, landsman. You are not needed or wanted on
Java.”
Sinar’s hands tightened on the cockpit railing. He had an ominous hunch about who he was dealing with, but he also knew that every man aboard the dive boat was awaiting his word, judging him as their leader. He must try and maintain the bluff he had built for himself, at least until he could get his feet on dry ground.
“Allah and his Prophet Muhammad say that we shall pass!”
“And the Raja Samudra says that you shall not.”
Flame leaped from the bulwarks of the pinisi squadron. Machine guns raged, fuel tanks and rocket-propelled grenades flared – and Mohammed Sinar and the Army of God’s Sacred Vengeance ceased to be a matter of concern for anyone.
The Bottom of Merak Harbor, Java
1523 Hours; Zone Time, November 10, 2008
The object lay in the slime of the harbor floor just off the ferry terminal docks. A great, flattened lozenge encased in a jacket of rubbery anti-echoic material, it electronically debated one of the two great pressing questions in its limited universe.
Two days prior, it had been carefully positioned by the SEAL Delivery Vehicle Remora. But it had rested inert until prodded to life only an hour before by a protracted and complex sequence of events.
At the port of Bakauheni on the Sumatran side of the trans-straits ferry run, a Bugi stevedore had noted the equipment and personnel of a Rebel armored reconnaissance company being loading aboard the commandeered car ferry, Bukit Barasan.
A phone call was made and, after that, a brief transmission from a concealed radio transmitter to the USS Shenandoah. From the commando carrier, another transmission was made, a digital activation code sent on a carrier frequency pitched to penetrate the shallow water of Marak harbor.
