by Tom Clancy
“So it appears. Somebody with a bomb.”
“Yes, sir.” Valdez anticipated the next question. “But we have no information, sir, about nuclear weapons in this part of the world. They shouldn’t be here.”
“They shouldn’t be anywhere,” the president murmured, almost inaudibly.
“So what about fallout?” the president asked, moving on (he had a list). “Can you give us some clues about where that might go?”
“It was a dirty weapon, sir, a ground burst. It had to have picked up lots of water and lots of dirt and other stuff. That’s the bad news. The good news is the prevailing winds tend south this time of year ... the good news for us,” he amended. “It doesn’t look like we’ll get any rain today. I’d worry if we were. But south of here they could have problems. Timor’s maybe just over 300 miles downwind, to the southwest. And Darwin in Australia is less than a thousand. They could get some bad shit, if you pardon me, sir.”
“I’ve heard worse. And it describes the situation only too well. I don’t think our Australian friends will be very happy.”
The president moved the phone receiver away from his face. “I want to talk to the prime minister when I finish with the captain,” he said to his National Security Advisor.
“We have U-2s up from Kadena AFB, Mr. President, in Okinawa,” Admiral Croce broke in. “They’ll be monitoring the fallout situation and taking samples. Analysis of these should tell us within seventy-two hours exactly where the weapons were made. And what kind of fallout situation we can expect. We will also send a DOE NEST team”—Nuclear Emergency Search Team—“from Las Vegas to monitor the situation on the ground.”
“Good. That will be something. Meanwhile, our Aussie friends are going to be mega-pissed.” And then a spark lit his eyes. “Which is not necessarily a bad thing. They’re going to want to take some action. They could be a big help.”
“They will be, Mr. President,” Croce said. “I already have people talking to people in Canberra.”
“Fine, fine,” the president said, “we have to move fast.” He then resumed his conversation with Valdez. “Anything else you can tell me, Captain?”
“No, sir. Not now, sir.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. President.”
It was now three A.M. in Washington.
Richard Callenbach’s female aide approached the president. “Mr. President,” she announced softly, “I think you need to look at a report we’ve just taken off the BBC World Service.” She pointed a remote at a TV screen, and a nice-looking blonde Brit female news reader appeared:
“Minutes ago,” she announced, “Indonesian Major General Nusaution appeared on all the Indonesian national networks to make a startling announcement with reference to the even more startling nuclear explosion in the Moluccas early this morning.” The face of the general appeared onscreen. “According to General Nusaution,” she went on, “the Indonesian Armed Forces have been in possession of nuclear weapons for the better part of a year. These weapons, and I quote, ‘were obtained for purely defensive purposes, and were placed under the very highest security. Even so,’ the general continued, ‘through treachery at the highest and most trusted level, one of these weapons was stolen, and passed into the hands of Moluccan Christian radical separatist fanatics. They detonated that weapon in order to destroy the Sons of the Jihad ... and to permanently end the possibility of Muslim-Christian coexistence in Indonesia. We will provide conclusive evidence of this Christian conspiracy shortly.
“ ‘These fanatics pose imminent danger to the nation,’ the general concluded. ‘The Army will, as always, protect the nation from all enemies—internal or foreign.’
“General Nusaution has left more questions unanswered than he has answered,” the BBC announcer concluded. “First, how did they come to acquire nuclear weapons, and from whom. Second, why? And third, how could one of these weapons be stolen from a presumably secure facility?
“So far, there are no good answers to these questions. We hope to have more answers soon. This is Linda Sillitoe reporting from Jakarta.”
The aide clicked off the screen.
“Not a bad analysis,” Richard Callenbach observed.
“It still leaves more questions than answers,” Admiral Croce answered.
“It does confirm one thing,” the president said. “You were right, Dick. The place is a muddle wrapped in a mystery wrapped in misdirection. Do you all realize that there may well be not a single truthful word in that general’s statement?”
“How do you know that?” Richard Callenbach asked. He was the president’s resident skeptic.
“My nose itched, Dick. My thumbs prickled. And ask yourself this: What Christian would set off a nuclear weapon on Christmas Day? Mark me on this: Some idiot who doesn’t know the first thing about Christians has set the Christians up.”
Callenbach raised a skeptical eyebrow. But Croce’s gaze was more thoughtful. “If you’re right about that, sir,” he said, “then we may have much bigger problems in Indonesia than disaster relief in the Moluccas.”
“You bet,” the president said, pleased that the admiral had caught his train of thought. “There are two hundred million Indonesians. We could be seeing something starting to go down there worse than former Yugoslavia.
“Could the nuke have been the first shot in a civil war?
“Whatever’s going down there, I don’t want to be caught flat-footed. Let me know by morning what we can do ... if we have to do something.”
“We’ll do that,” Admiral Croce said.
“We’ll need to put together a coalition,” Callenbach added. “It can’t be an American affair. And the existing Asian security collectives don’t really cover the case ... especially if it turns out there’s a civil war.”
“It’s too bad this thing is not in the NATO sphere,” the president added to that thought. “Yeah, this can’t be an American affair: We need to bring in the Aussies and the Brits, of course, but also Thailand, the Philippines, Singapore, and Malaysia (they’ll be initially reluctant, but they’ll come aboard after the others do), and any other suspects. Get working on that now.
“And by the way, the Indonesian government—or somebody over there ... somebody crazy enough to use it—has got their hands on at least one nuke. If there are others, find the bastards ... now!
“Today’s was the first nuke fired in anger since Nagasaki. I want to make sure those crazies don’t fire off another one ... in, say, Jakarta.”
Kota Ambon, Moluccas
1750 25 December 2005
JISF headquarters was located in what had once been police headquarters in Kota Ambon, on the comer of Jalan 111-115 Raya Pattimura and Jalan Ahmad Yani. Carlos Valdez hoped to find Lieutenant Colonel Kumar there, and he was in luck, but only just barely. Kumar was on the way out.
“Hi, Kumar,” Valdez greeted his friend. “What gives?”
“I’m on my way out to meeting Sam Fireside and I have set up with all the various local leaders.” Captain Sam Fireside was Commander of ODA 146. “We’ve rounded up all of them: Christians, Muslims, militia commanders, the whole catastrophe. And then we are going to draw water from the moon.”
“Water from the moon?”
“An Indonesian saying: ‘Do the impossible.’ They will cooperate, with us and with each other. If they don‘t, they’ll get no transportation, no communications, no support, and no medical aid.”
“That should encourage them to listen to sweet reason.”
Kumar made a sad, lopsided grin. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“I’d like to. Sparks will fly ... before sweetness prevails. But I can’t. I’m on my way back to Pattimura to brief Major Carver; I decided to stop here on the way for a heads-up.”
Kumar was short, slender, and very trim. His English was fluent (though Valdez was comfortable speaking Indonesian); he had been educated in the States, at Texas A&M.
“Here, take a look.”
He handed Valdez a piece of paper, printed on both sides in Indonesian. “We used our printing press you gave us to turn out thousands of these. Your Chinooks have been dropping them over the eastern parts of the island all afternoon.” (The Chinooks had come with CH-47D [4] of the California Army National Guard, on scene to provide the Special Forces with air support and transportation.)
The leaflet told Valdez what he expected to find: “There has been a nuclear explosion.” (In case you don’t already know.) “Below are directions to move to safety. If you or someone close to you have the following symptoms—nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, fatigue, headache, shortness of breath, rapid heartbeat—you need immediate medical care.
“Medical care can be found at aid stations located in the following towns: Rutung, Lateri, Hunut, and Tulahu.” (These were the closest relatively undamaged towns to ground zero.) “Everyone must obtain and take potassium iodide pills to ward off radiation sickness. These would be available soon at the following locations.” (A list followed. The pills were being flown in from Australia, and Valdez was eager to start taking some himself. They helped sweep the zapping nasties from your body.) “Seriously injured would be transported to a hospital in Kota Ambon. If you know of anyone unable to help themselves, please inform officials at the above locations or any JISF soldier or officer you encounter.” There were maps and other graphics.
Leaflets were a longtime Special Forces specialty. It was the world’s oldest technology for getting word out to large numbers of people, but still effective—especially in situations, as here, where the more technologically advanced media were inoperative. Valdez was pleased that Kumar and his JISF guys had learned the lesson so well.
“Looks pretty good,” he said to Kumar. And then, “How are things going out there?”
“We have people in boats and SUVs combing through what’s left of the towns around Baguala Bay. There aren’t many survivors there.”
“Your guys at Siri?”
Kumar’s shrug showed more than resignation. There was anger, too. “There’s nothing left there. Wiped clean. But they’ve been able to pull a few people out alive a few kilometers away ... and across the bay.”
Another disturbing thought occurred to Valdez, “There’s no protective gear here. Your people on the bay will be taking more rads than they should.”
“We’ll lose a few of them,” Kumar snapped bitterly. “Americans aren’t the only heroes.”
Valdez gave his friend a sharp but pained look. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” Kumar replied quickly, immediately repentant for his outburst (which to an American was hardly an outburst; to an Indonesian it was a serious breech). “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Valdez could only guess at the pain and stress his friend was feeling. These were his people out there suffering.
“Your people are mostly backing us up with communications and C and C,” Kumar went on, “but your medics have joined ours out in the four frontline towns.”
“And how is it out there?”
“Ugly. Very ugly. We’re getting initially walk-in survivors, of course—blast and thermal damage, flying debris. Not much radiation yet—and what we do find are certain to die; it was a dirty bomb—but there’ll be more, surely.”
He gave Valdez a suddenly impatient look. “I have to go.”
“We’ll get through this,” Valdez said, by way of farewell.
“We will,” Kumar answered bitterly.
The Ministry of Defense Command Center
Merdeka Square, Jakarta
1930 25 December 2005
The Indonesian Military Command Center was a large, high-ceilinged room furnished with ranks of long tables and computer terminals. On the front wall were three large screens, on which could be projected maps, slides, or video.
The Indonesian vice-president, Radu Adil, sat at the front table, taking in the current situation. Currently dreadful. Nusaution’s announcement, and its follow-up “proofs,” had had the expected effects: The nuclear weapon exploded inside their country had sent students and other customary rioters berserk. Sectarian rioting had broken out in Jakarta and all over the country, especially in Java. Though the riots were “reportedly disorganized,” the initial signs were bad. Christians and Chinese (always the scapegoats in Indonesia) were being hunted down and murdered. It could get worse.
“Reportedly disorganized. ” That was, of course, official bullshit, and Adil knew it. The riots were the work of Army instigators. They were foreplay leading up to some kind of orgasm that would spark an Army takeover attempt. The big question now for Adil: How and when would it come?
He and his friends and allies were prepared for it. Had they prepared enough? Another big question.
Next to Adil sat the Minister of Defense, Untung Sutopo—like Adil, an Air Force general—and the commanders of the Army, Navy, and Air Force: General Yani, Admiral Suwandi, and General Omar Dhani. All of them allies of the president, Gajah Mada. (Adil himself had come from a group technically opposed to Gajah Mada. He was made vice-president as a consensus-building measure.) The president himself was in his office in the Presidential Palace, but there was a link-up, and he occasionally made remarks through the public address system (usually inane, in Adil’s view).
All eyes, except Adil‘s, were riveted on one of the large screens on the front wall, where General Nusaution (the official Army spokesman) was making another announcement over state TV. Adil had directed his face dutifully toward the screen, but only half his attention was there. Nusaution’s words, delivered in an “authoritative” and patronizing tone, were predictable—diatribe and invective and unfounded charges aimed at Christian fanatics and Moluccan “splittists” (a Chinese coined term he had picked up to denote separatists and secessionists). They had brought the day’s tragedy on themselves, he intoned in a voice dripping sanctimony. Yet it should also come as a warning to other “splittists” and Balkanizers. Disorder and anarchy will not be tolerated. Martial law has been declared, and the Army, under the direction of a group calling itself “The Committee for the Restoration of the Republic” is restoring order. Keep calm. Stay home. Don’t resist.
“So they’re moving now,” Adil said to himself, not exactly surprised.
At that moment he lifted a phone receiver and punched in a number. After fourteen rings someone came on at the other end.
“Merdeka,” the voice said.
“Activate Delphi,” Adil said, then called the president on his private number. There was no answer. Unsurprised, he replaced the receiver in its cradle and waited.
He did not have long to wait. Seconds after Nusaution had finished his speech, army troops in combat gear were standing in all the exits. They were led by a colonel Adil knew vaguely. His name was Cancio.
Very quickly and smoothly Cancio moved in, and was soon standing in the space in front of the screens.
“Be calm,” he announced politely, though with none of the deference you’d expect he would offer military superiors. “This is a precaution to restore order. Please do not resist.”
He then approached Adil and leaned down close to his ear.
“The president is dead,” he whispered. “You can cooperate or not. Your choice. Your family are,” he paused significantly, “in our care. Your cooperation will make you useful to my superiors. I suggest that you comply. You will be taken by helicopter to a safe place.”
Adil gave a brief nod that might be taken as assent. He knew he had no choice.
Cancio pointed in the direction of a major. “He’ll be responsible for you. You’ll be safe with him.”
Cancio then slipped his pistol out of its holster, and, with four quick, accurate shots, put bullets into the heads of the Minister of Defense, General Yani, Admiral Suwandi, and General Dhani. They slumped across the table.
“Traitors,” he said calmly, then led the major and Adil to a helicopter waiting on the rooftop pad.
Jakarta
2330 25 December 200
0
Jakarta was a madhouse. The news of the Army intervention did not calm the rioters, it only inflamed them more. Buildings and cars were torched, shops were looted. There were dozens of deaths and hundreds of injuries. Though considerably reinforced Army troops had tried to restore order, they were clumsy and ill-trained for the job; as the night progressed, the mayhem in the streets had actually increased ... and it had been terrible during the afternoon. (The coup leaders had predicted an easy transition to their rule; this was not their only, or their worst, miscalculation.)
Paradiso 2001 was a small Chinese vegetarian restaurant down an alley off of Jalan Sabang, and a ten-minute walk from the American Embassy. Two men, an Indonesian and an American, met there very late and took a quiet booth, with the expectation that chances were slim that either would be recognized. Both were in civilian clothes. The Indonesian was wearing tan slacks, batik shirt, and a pitji cap, the Indonesian national headgear. The American was dressed like a tourist, in shorts, flowered shirt, and baseball cap (New York Mets). The American was not a tourist; he was the American Air Attaché, Air Force Colonel Anthony Meyer (who had been in-country long enough to know that Indonesians frown on shorts). The Indonesian was Radu Adil’s top aide, Widodo Suratman.
The meeting was Delphi.
Suratman, who had not eaten since morning, ordered braised Chinese broccoli, fried rice, and tea. Meyer sipped on a Tsingtao beer while Suratman waited for his meal.
“I have been authorized by Vice-President Adil,” Suratman said, after a decent diplomatic interval, “to pass over to you certain sensitive information. He will also make, through me, requests of the United States, which he hopes your country will honor.
“But,” he added, with pleading eyes, “in whatever way you use this information, and whether or not you honor the vice-president’s requests—you must understand that this meeting never happened.”
“Agreed,” Meyer said.
“You must also understand that the president has been executed. Yani, Suwandi, Dhani, and Sutopo were all murdered at the Ministry of Defense Command Center. The vice-president was observed to leave the ministry in a helicopter with an Army colonel named Cancio and an unidentified major. He can be presumed to be alive—they could have killed him with the others, but did not.”