True, it was more corporate security than a real military defense, but then the Free Papuan Militia had little more than machetes and shotguns to fight with.
Still, what did the Asmat tribesmen call this place? “The Land of Lapping Death”, wasn’t it?
Captain Rajamala hesitated for a moment then reached for the tower’s field phone. He would declare a “mad minute” and have the duty gunners hose down the tree line, just in case.
But before he could lift the receiver, a series of hollow metallic coughs sounded from somewhere out in the darkness.
The first mortar salvo, precisely targeted, took out the power station transformers. Disrupted electricity arced and blazed, the compound was engulfed in darkness. Swiftly, the Papuan mortarmen swung their tubes to bear on their next pre-registered target. A storm of 81mm rounds rained down on the garrison barracks, blasting and slaying.
At the edge of the forest, orange backflashes silhouetted the areca palms as recoilless rifles barked, their shells sequentially demolishing the spindle-legged perimeter gun towers.
Captain Rajamala’s last living action was to stab a thumb down on the alarm button, an act of futility as the power failure had silenced the sirens. Then the platform atop the main gate tower took a direct hit, bursting like a fiery balloon.
Papuan warriors poured out of the forest line, some clad in the black uniform of
the Free Papuan Militia, others naked save for their ammunition belts. The
majority of them carried modern assault rifles and grenade launchers. Screaming
battle cries older than civilization, they charged the collapsing colony
defense line.
The Village of Anak Agung Barong,
The Island of Bali, Indonesia
0543 Hours; Zone Time, September 12, 2008
Bali has been called “the Land of Ten Thousand Temples.” This is erroneous, for in truth there were over fifty thousand temples scattered over the island. They could be found in the mountains and on the ocean shores, along the roads and byways, in the cities, towns and villages. Even the smallest and most humble of communities had its shrines to the Trisaki, the three primary manifestations of Sang Hyang Widhi, the One God who rules all.
For the Balinese did not merely follow or prescribe to their unique form of the Hindu religion, the Agama Tirta (the Science of the Holy Water), as much as they lived it. They shared their island with their Gods. They stood ever at one’s shoulder and were intertwined into every facet of daily living. Every tree, every stone, every living thing of Bali held its guardian spirit which, in turn, was but a glittering fragment of the One God, a thread in a great, ancient and all-encompassing tapestry.
This was the essential, universal truth of the Balinese people. It had given them the strength to survive as an isolated Hindu island amid a frequently hostile sea of Muslim fundamentalism. It had given them the endurance to live through centuries of European Colonialism and decades of oppressive Javanese administration and yet remain unique.
Each Balinese village had three obligatory temples, each representing one of the primary holy manifestations. Dedicated to Vishnu the Preserver, the pura puseh, the “navel temple”, was located in the center of the village and served as the shrine around which the community grew.
To the north was the pura desa, the “village temple” dedicated to Brahma the Creator. Here, the everyday matters of the village were dealt with and the village’s ritual feasts and celebrations were held.
To the south was the pura dalem, the temple of Shiva the Destroyer and his consort Durga. In many ways, the Balinese Hindu hold this the most critical of the three. Vishnu and Brahma deal in life, creation and growth, beneficial affairs. Shiva rules on matters involving death, destruction and damnation. The prudent individual assuages him first and earnestly endeavors to stay in his favorable lights.
Taman Karangasem was the pemangku of the village of Anak Angung Garong’s pura dalem, the lay priest who maintained the little temple and who officiated at its routine, day in and day out ceremonies. In marked contrast to the grim visage Shiva presented to his worshippers, Karangasem was a genial, kindly man, deeply involved in the welfare of his village and much admired and respected in return.
Middle-aged, graying and stocky for a Balinese, he strode down the forested path to his temple, savoring the hint of early morning cool. For the moment he was clad in the simple wraparound sarung and sandals of a common villager. He would shift into his more elaborate ceremonial garb later in the morning to deal with his religious duties. For now he had the more plebian tasks of cleaning and maintenance to deal with.
The pedanda, the high priests of the Balinese religious cast, sometimes disdainfully referred to the village temple keepers as “sweepers” – but Karangasem took no offense at the name. If the One God could be honorably served by wielding a broom then he was proud to do so. Humming softly to himself, he rounded the corner of the stone temple wall and passed through the open and elaborately carved split gate that led to the outer courtyard.
Abruptly, his tune trailed off. Across the flagstones, the main doors to the inner courtyard, the Jerone, the “holy of the holiest” stood open as they should never be, save for when a ritual was in progress.
Sandals slapping, Karangasem raced across the courtyard. Theft from Balinese temples was not unknown. Carvings and art objects were stolen for sale overseas or to the tourist shops. Also villages frequently would invest whatever wealth they might accumulate in gold and silver ornamentation to honor the Gods.
Such crimes were neither undertaken or responded to lightly. For a thief caught stealing from a temple, the sentence was frequently death, with the local police and the court system not being involved.
When he reached the door of the inner courtyard, Karangasem brought himself up short. It was worse than theft. Worse than he could ever have imagined.
The offerings to the gods brought to the temple by the villagers – the flowers, the artworks, the food – had been ruthlessly scattered and trampled across the court. The padmasana, the stone throne of the sun-god Surya in the upper right-hand corner of the temple yard had been tipped over. The deer’s antlers had been broken from the Maospait shrine that commemorated the divine first settlers of Bali. And the paruman, the pavilion in the center of the Jerone that served as the communal seat of the gods had been smeared with animal excrement.
The Muslim battle cry of “There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his Prophet” had been spraycanned in garish colors again and again around the walls of the Jerone.
In matters of joy or sorrow or passion, the Balinese are an open, exuberant and demonstrative people. Only in anger do they turn inward. Only in rage are they impassive. Karangasem expressed himself by the paling knuckles of his clenched fists. But the words of warning from a seventeenth century factor of the Dutch East India Company whispered down the ages.
“Do not lightly provoke the little brown people.”
The Town of Bireuen, Aceh Provence,
The Island of Sumatra, Indonesia
0231 Hours; Zone Time, September 13, 2008
“Mohammed Sinar.”
His name might have been a dreamed murmur in the darkness of the cheap losman lodging-house room, yet Sinar’s eyes snapped open and his heart stuttered and slammed in his chest. He knew that some night he would wake up to die. It was a fate frequently reserved for losers in the game of power and territory.
As the most recent wave of Islamic radicalism had engulfed Indonesia, a variety of tribal, religious and political factions had become involved in the reviving the Aceh Merdeka (Freedom for Aceh) movement dedicated to the establishment of an independent Muslim fundamentalist state in northwestern Sumatra.
Theoretically these factions were united in a revolutionary cause against western secularism and the Indonesian government. In reality, the movement was wracked by schism and counter schism as warlords struggled bloodily for position and power, the civil war against Jakarta frequently taking second place in their priorities.
Muhammad Sinar was – or at least had been – one such player. Formerly a minor police official in western Sumatra, he had been cashiered from the security forces for misuse of government funds during the last attempt by the Jakarta government to suppress corruption.
Sinar proclaimed that the charges had been trumped up against him and that secularist persecution had been the real reason for his discharge. In reality, he had indeed been an embezzler and a fairly inept one. However, such truths would have gained him little status in the eyes of the mullahs.
With his dreams of power within the establishment disrupted, Sinar sought out the revolutionaries he had once fought. Using the contacts he had gained in his time with the police, Sinar rallied a band of former criminals and disgruntled ex-police officers to his cause. He had impressed the local revolutionaries with a great deal of bombastic rhetoric and a couple of minor coups against the provincial administration and had bullied the leadership of a small number of province villages into half-heartedly supporting his cadre.
After that, things had gone downhill. Muhammad Sinar lacked the monetary and military backing and the political acumen to maneuver himself into a position of real power within the movement. But while hindered by his bush league resources, Sinar still had world series intentions.
He had invited the warlords of two of the other Merdeka factions to a council of war, the stated intention being to merge the three factions into a single united force. Then Sinar had endeavored to bring this to pass by massacring the leadership of the other two groups.
