Phantom force the uss cu.., p.42
Phantom Force (The USS Cunningham Quintet Book 5), page 42
Van Linden adjusted his glasses and looked to the papers on his desk, not giving the Indonesian an opportunity to reply. “To move along to the greater problem of Java and Sumatra. The situation continues in a state of flux on both islands, with scattered elements of the government and rebel forces clashing with no clear-cut dominance as yet established and no fixed territorial lines yet drawn. Some governmental forces are continuing a resistance even around the Jakarta area.
“To date, Ketalaman has established no true dominance over either island. At this juncture, our military leaders feel that an infusion of fresh government forces could very well turn the tide and lead to a collapse of the anti-government rebellion.”
“But we have no fresh governmental forces,” Kediri protested. “We’re fully committed. We have nothing left!”
“Yes, you do, Mr. President. You have a very large force pool, including some of your best and most reliable ground combat units that can be immediately committed to the fighting on Java and Sumatra. Your garrisons on New Guinea.”
Kediri shot to his feet. “That’s impossible!”
“No, it is not, Mr. President.” The Secretary of State refused to understand Kediri’s meaning. “The Air Forces of the United States and Australia are standing by to provide all of the required airlift. The first transport missions can be launched within a matter of hours.”
“It cannot be done!” Kediri insisted. “Our people are fighting for their lives on Irian Jaya against the Morning Star revolutionaries. If we withdraw our troops, those savages will butcher our citizens!”
“We are currently in communication with the leadership of the Morning Star Movement,” Van Linden replied slowly. “They have agreed to an immediate cease-fire and they have guaranteed the safety of all Indonesian citizens currently on Irian Jaya. You may withdraw your forces to deal with the Ketalaman situation without any concern of a massacre. They’ve given us their word and we feel they can be trusted.”
“And how can you be so sure the word of those barbarians is good?”
“Because they expect something in return, President Kediri. A withdrawal of all Indonesian garrisons, transmigrasi and government administrators. Also, the recognition of a free and independent Papuan republic under the Morning Star flag.”
It took Kediri several sputtering seconds to regain his English. “Unthinkable! Unthinkable! That is beyond all possibility, Mr. Secretary. Do you realize how many Indonesian patriots lost their lives liberating Irian Jaya from the Dutch colonialists? That is a sacred island.”
“The Morning Star Movement feels much the same way, Mr. President.” Van Linden lowered his voice. “They have lost a great number of lives as well, seeking to drive out what they perceive as an Indonesian colonial government. We do not sit in judgment of you or Indonesia, President Kediri, but the age of colonialism is over, for everyone.”
“May I ask how you have managed to make these agreements with these … Morning Star leaders?”
“No, Mr. President. You may not. Suffice to say that we have been able to make these arrangements. They are yours if you chose to accept them. We – that is, the governments of Australia and the United States – believe you should. We desire to see a unified Indonesia survive. We believe that this is in the best interests of the Pacific Rim nations and of the world as a whole, and that this may be the best, if not the only, means of rectifying the current situation. But be advised, sir, should you choose not to accept this option, we may be forced to accept the dissolution of the Indonesian State as a fait accompli. Out of national necessity, we may have no choice but to commence the recognition of the independent island governments of the archipelago.”
President Kediri stared down at the tabletop for a long time, then looked up, his worn face expressionless. “It seems I am being left with few options.”
“We have very little time in which to act Mr. President,” Van Lynden said without remorse, “and you have a choice to make. You can lose New Guinea or you can lose Indonesia. As we say in my country, ‘take it or leave it’.”
The Airwaves over the Indonesian Archipelago
1200 Hours; Zone Time, November 6, 2008
“KGKR calling KGGX, on sched Zulu … KGKR calling KGGX on sched Zulu … The words are Honor … Apple … Tin Pot. I repeat, Honor … Apple … Tin Pot.”
“KGGX replying to KGKR on sched Zulu. I hear the words. I reply Glory … Papaya … Kettle. I reply Glory … Papaya … Kettle.”
“It’s good to hear your voice again, my father Akima. I am pleased to see things go well for you and the Morning Stars.”
“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.
Now the debate began. The object’s passive hydrophone system scanned the surrounding maritime environment, comparing the sound signatures of passing watercraft with one specific signature pre-loaded into its computer memory. Previously captured by an air-dropped sensor buoy, it was the sound pattern produced by the motor ferry Bukit Barasan, as distinctive and unique as a human fingerprint.
An outboard powered water taxi buzzed past. That’s not it! A fishing lugger chugged out into the Straits. That’s not it! The beat of a heavier screw drew closer. The object’s idiot savant brain minutely assessed the sound pattern, matching the chirp of the nicked propeller blade with the vibration of a coolant pump and the rumble-swish of the water flow around a blunt-bowed hull.
That’s it!
One of the two great questions had been answered. Safety interlocks disengaged and secondary sensor systems came on-line.
The Bukut Barasan slowed and eased in toward the dock. The tide was out and the hundred-and-eighty-foot-long ferry was heavily burdened with some score of armored fighting vehicles on her car deck and a hundred odd troops in her passenger spaces. Her keel passed a bare ten feet over the object on the harbor floor. The object’s pressure sensors and magnetometers reacted to the displacement and steel of the ferry’s hull and the object answered its second and last great question.
Now!
Firing impulses flashed to the detonators buried within half a ton of PBXN high explosive and the smart mine fulfilled its destiny.
Bengkulu Air Field, New Guinea
0901 Hours; Zone Time, November 12, 2008
The Lockheed C-130 transport had been dubbed the “Hercules” – but perhaps the aircraft would have been better named the “Storm Crow” or the “Stormy Petrel” for, after fifty years of continuous production and service in the world’s air forces, she was the omen of war and disaster.
For fully half a century she had been the world’s premier tactical military airlifter; absolutely necessary and apparently immune to obsolescence. Like the KA-BAR knife, the model 1911A Colt .45 and the “Ma Deuce” .50 caliber machine gun, the only thing that can replace a C-130 is another C-130.
The field at Bengkulu was lined with them, bearing different camo-patterned paint and different national insignia: Australia, New Zealand, Japan, Indonesia, Singapore, the United States. Ground crews swarmed around them and a steady stream of vehicles and equipment flowed up their tail ramps to vanish within their commodious bellies. Every few minutes, a Hercules would lift into the sky with a moan of racing turboprops, only to be replaced a few minutes later by a sister plane, an empty “bucket” returning on the air bridge to Java.
Aboard the departing aircraft, Indonesian soldiers lay across cargo pallets or squatted in odd corners of the cargo bay, their eyes closed, not seeking to speak over the deafening song of the propellers. They were leaving the “Land of Lapping Death” behind.
This was no escape from conflict – they were flying from war to war – but at least, if they fell, they would die on home ground.
On the hills overlooking the airfield, black-skinned men looked up at the sky and watched the airplanes bearing the brown-skinned men away. Soon, this land, their land, would belong only to them once more, for better or worse, to make of it what they could.
They looked on with an ageless patience. They had waited a long time for this moment. They could wait a little longer.
Pangkalpinang Airfield
Banka island
0716 Hours; Zone Time, November 14, 2008
It was a cool and showery morning but Captain Raya Sukawate, former Garuda airlines pilot – and now rebel Air Force officer – was sweating as he argued on the edge of the parking apron.
“Damn it! The airplane doesn’t know about your bloody orders!”
Sukawate’s de Havilland Dash-8 300 turboprop airliner had been converted into a military transport by the fast and dirty gutting of its interior. Now it was being loaded for another shuttle run to Java. Loaded and overloaded. The oleo legs of the Dash-8’s undercarriage sank as case after case of artillery ammunition was shoehorned through the passenger hatch to be sketchily lashed down within the stripped aircraft.
“We’re already over our maximum safe payload weight! We could lose the aircraft if we try a take-off like this.”
“We are at war,” the stone-faced logistics officer replied. “Risks must be taken for the victory. These munitions must be delivered to our forces in Java. We must increase the tonnage we airlift!”
“Destroying your aircraft and killing your pilots won’t get it done!”
The Army man’s expression didn’t change, but his hand drifted toward the holster at his belt and Sukawate yielded. There were a growing number of reports of men being shot for “defeatism.”
The pilot turned back toward the airliner, recomputing his fuel load once more. If he dumped another hundred gallons, he might be able to scrape into Jakarta on fumes.
*
The logy turboprop lumbered out to the very end of the main runway, Sukawate wanting every last inch of the tarmac working in his favor. He and his copilot rushed through the preflight checklist and engine run-up, balancing the need to make sure of the power plants with the consumption of precious kerosene.
