“The main body of Regional Intervention Force has sortied from Darwin and is
steaming northward. They should arrive off Bali within the next twenty-four
hours. The Singaporean and Japanese navies have also commenced patrol
operations in the Straits of Malacca.”
“Has there been any indication of a commitment of additional forces or of any
change in their mission?”
“No sir, the RIF mission statement remains the same: to ensure freedom of the
seas and to evacuate all foreign nationals from the archipelago.”
“Excellent! We’ll allow them to get the foreigners out. It will simplify things greatly. One
less justification for any future intrusion into our affairs.”
The Chief of Staff managed a faint smile of his own. “The foreign media representatives are already referring to the ‘Indonesian quagmire’, sir.”
“Another good omen. And what of the situation in Jakarta?”
“Our forces are moving into position, sir. The seventeenth brigade has assumed
the capital garrison duties and the majority of the assassination and sabotage
teams are positioned and ready to launch on your command. We can go at any time
now, but Brigadier Tagang would like another twenty-four hours to move some
last pro-government elements out of the Jakarta district.”
“I think we can give him his time, Captain. We’ll want to give the hysteria over the Bali massacres a chance to grow among the
civilian populace a bit more. It will improve the justification for our
actions.”
The CoS started to speak again, than hesitated. Ketalaman frowned. “What is it, Captain?”
“In relation to that factor, sir. There has been an irregularity in that area.”
“What do you mean, an irregularity?”
“Last night, we launched the anti-Balinese propaganda campaign as per the Psyops
plan. The radicalist commando teams successfully seized the designated radio
stations and began the fatwa broadcasts. However, the seized stations were
silenced after only a matter of hours.”
“We expected that Kediri would eventually be able to stop our transmissions.”
“That’s the problem, sir. Government forces weren’t involved. The station transmitters were destroyed by anti-radiation missiles.
We believe they were American-made AGM 88s.”
“Where were they fired from?” Ketalaman demanded.
“We don’t know, sir. All anyone can say is that the missiles came in from the sea.”
“Such weapons require a launch platform, Commander!”
“I know, sir. There were no known government ships or aircraft in the launch
areas at the time of the events. Nor were there any identified Regional
Intervention Force elements. There were some fragmentary airborne radar
contacts off the Sumatran coast, but nothing that could be positively
established. The strongest possibility is that …”
“They were launched from a stealth platform of some nature. The Americans.” Ketalaman pursed his lips. This was an unwelcome disruption of order. He had assessed the potentials of an American involvement and, as long as it evolved along conventional channels, he was not excessively concerned. But this proactive intervention by some unidentified and apparently invisible agency was disconcerting. It was like having a vengeful hantu ghost standing at one’s back. It hinted that the giant might be taking a greater interest than had been expected.
“Step up our reconnaissance of the Regional Intervention Force and increase our
monitoring of the US Embassy in Jakarta. If there is any further indication of
excessive meddling by the United States, I wish to be informed of it
immediately. Also inform Brigadier Tagang that we may not be able to give him
his twenty-four hours.”
“Yes, sir. At once.” His Chief of Staff flipped to the next page of the morning’s briefing file. “There is another event to report. In relation to the Harconan question, there
has been a fortunate turn of events.”
“How so, Captain?”
“A police launch on a patrol of the north coast of Sumbawa island encountered a
plane crash in an isolated inlet north of Mount Tambora. A Canadar amphibian
was found run up on a reef close inshore. A number of islanders were observed
on the beach who fled into the hills at the approach of the launch. An
investigative party was landed and a number of concealed drums of aviation fuel
were uncovered. Apparently, the amphibian was making a refueling stop when it
ran aground.”
A Canadar amphibian? “Has the owner of the aircraft been identified?” Ketalaman asked.
“The aircraft had been repainted and its identification numbers falsified, but
the airframe and engine serial numbers match with that of Makara Harconan’s personal aircraft.”
“Ah,” Ketalaman said softly. “Was any Intelligence recovered?”
“A hasty attempt had been made to burn the aircraft, but several charts and an
intact Global Positioning Unit was recovered. The aircraft was apparently
returning from an open ocean rendezvous off Lompoc Island.”
Ketalaman concealed his eagerness. “What was its point of origin?”
“A small plantation island in the Moluku group, sir.”
“Has this information been relayed to the Ministry of Defense?”
“The launch’s commander is one of our men, sir.”
Ketalaman allowed himself to nod in satisfaction. “Very good, Captain. This is a favorable event. Most favorable.”
Kuta Beach
Badung Regency, Bali
0535 Hours; Zone Time, October 28, 2008
Nancy Aimsley sat on the bed in the humid, airless darkness of the cheap hotel room and held her children close, thinking about Vermont and Christmas and whether they would live for another day.
She’d made the few feeble gestures she could, locking the sliding glass doors that opened onto the beach and drawing the drapes tightly closed. She had even wedged the room’s few pieces of flimsy furniture against the inner door.
Soon though, she would have to go outside and into the madness again. There was no electricity. There was no water. They had already eaten the scant bagful of snacks and soft drinks she had snatched out of her apartment kitchen. There was nowhere else to go and no one to turn to.
The only other occupants in the beachfront motel were an expatriate Australian couple in their seventies, who were slipping steadily deeper into a detached state of shock, and a pair of vacationing college girls from Denmark who had lost their English in their terror and who cowered in their room, weeping and seeking solace in a baggie of marijuana.
The establishment’s owners were simply gone. Just where, Nancy did not like to contemplate. They had been Balinese Muslims.
