0031 Hours; Zone Time, December 1, 2008
“If you do not know, Captain, then find out!”
Admiral Ketalaman caught himself, forcing impassivity into his face, drawing the coldness of the mountain stone up through his legs. He had been summoned from the estate mansion to his cavern command center upon the report of an attack on Jakarta by some outside force – but, since the sounding of the initial alarm, follow-up reports had been sporadic and fragmentary at best.
The duty officer’s face was wet with sweat, even in the cool interior of the cave. “17th Brigade headquarters and Brigadier Tagang are still not replying, sir. We have
no explanation.”
The likeliest explanation was a simple one: the 17th Brigade headquarters and Brigadier Tagang no longer existed.
“What about Halim Air Force Base? Are we through to them?”
“No, sir. They’re failing to reply as well.”
“We had a guard ship holding off the port? What are they reporting?”
The duty officer swallowed. “The frigate Wiratno does not reply, sir. But one of our shore stations is
picking up a signal from one of her emergency locator beacons.”
It must have been a massive attack, launched with both great speed and precision.
“What of the Americans? What have we got on their operations?”
“Air elements of the Regional Intervention Force were detected departing from
their carrier ships at Benoa Port. They followed a radar-evasive flight path
and tracking was lost over northern Bali. There was also a degree of northbound
traffic from the Northern Australian bases – but nothing that could be developed into a coherent plot. We’ve lost a great degree of radar coverage from the Javanese and Balinese stations
…”
Ketalaman waved away the excuse. He was well aware of the breakdown in the Indonesian air defense net. He was also well aware of the only reason there could be for an American intervention in Jakarta on this scale. The questions were: where had it come from and had it succeeded?
A fax machine hissed out a sheet of hardcopy at the communications desk. Ketalaman froze himself in place beside the main map table, requiring that the duty officer bring the information to him.
“It’s from the commander of the Bekasi police garrison. His road patrols have
reached Jakarta and established contact with the surviving tactical elements of
17th brigade.”
“Surviving elements?’
“Casualties have been very heavy, sir. The headquarters and support battalions of
the brigade have been wiped out. Brigadier Tegang is missing and presumed dead.”
“And what of the American Embassy?”
“Empty, sir. The Americans have successfully evacuated, and they’ve taken President Kediri with them. Our garrison forces report shooting down
two American helicopters and a number of remotely piloted vehicles.”
“I daresay the Americans can spare them, Commander,” Ketalaman replied, acid in his voice.
The Admiral turned away to stare at the shadowed basalt of the cave wall. In disaster, imperturbability. The lesson of the mountains. He was facing a catastrophic reversal just at the moment he must most appear invincible. Kediri had escaped him and the world and Indonesia still had an option. Beyond that, a major, precious military unit had been badly mauled.
Before turning around again, he had to annihilate the surge of fear and uncertainty welling within him. It was now a matter of triumph or perish.
Once more, he faced the silent operations staff. “We will need to consider replacements for our losses in the Jakarta area.
Allocate one half-hour in the morning briefing schedule to discuss troop
redeployments. Also, what is the latest word on Surface Action Squadron One?”
It took a moment for the Duty Officer to adjust his thinking. “Uh, at the last position check, the squadron had cleared Laut Kecil and were
proceeding to the waters off south Sulawesi peninsula, as per your orders.”
“Very good. Contact the squadron commodore. He is to proceed at once with the
Port Paotere operation.”
He had to get Harconan under his thumb. With Harconan’s assets, there would still be a chance. Even with Kediri in the American’s hands, there would be a chance.
“Very good, sir,” the duty officer replied. He was already steadying down, regaining heart with his leader’s show of strength.
“I am returning to my quarters now, Captain. Notify me of any further
developments.”
As the mountains.
Port Paotere, South Sulawesi Island
0848 Hours; Zone Time, October 1, 2008
Called by Alfred Wallace “prettier and cleaner than any I had yet seen in the east”, the city of Ujung Padang made a fetish out of thriving.
First it had served as the capital of the ancient Bone Empire during the golden age of the Bugi sea clans. Then, during the days of Dutch Colonialism, it had been a booming maritime trading hub, a transshipment and exchange point for the manufactured goods of Europe and the spices and sandalwood of the East Indies.
By the twenty-first century, it was the largest city on Sulawesi and the fifth largest in the entire archipelago, its potent commercial engine still thrumming.
At the heart of Ujung Padang’s success were its harbors: Sokarno, the deep-water facility that handled the modern merchant shipping, and Paotere, the shallow water port northward up the coast.
Here, the Bugi still ruled.
The piers of the port were jammed with inter-island traffic, scores of pinisi loading and unloading from the close-ranked warehouses, the cargoes being borne on the backs of Bugi stevedores as it had been done for centuries.
Here also, as it had been for centuries, the Bugi fleet was born. On the slipways of the port’s shipyards, the pinisi schooners were crafted from the superlative hardwoods from the heart of Kalimantan.
Some things had changed – the pinisi were now constructed with metal hardware instead of being pegged together as they had been done in centuries past, and engine beds were installed to accept auxiliary diesel – but each ship was built as it had always been, by hand and without blueprints or schematics. The design for each sleek hull existed only in the mind of a master Bugi shipwright with a millennium of tradition behind him and an understanding of the sea branded into his genes.
On this morning, no trace of the disintegration of the Indonesian nation was apparent on the Paotere waterfront. Obedient to the will and command of the Raja Samudra, the sea peoples were staying out of the chaos and conflict, keeping to themselves and keeping their own peace.