Duat stood at the edge of the beach and listened to the hum of activity in the camp behind him, the warm waters of the Java Sea gently breaking on the sand of crushed shells. He dug his toes into it and wiggled them, something he used to do as a child. Of course Kadar Al-Jahani had to go to the West Bank and capitalise on the demonstration in Jakarta, he told himself, the bombing would have been a largely pointless exercise otherwise – but it would be a dangerous trip. As agreed, they had not claimed responsibility for the attack. The time for Babu Islam to announce its existence and its intentions to the world would come. But that time was some way off yet. There was still too much to do to risk a response from the west. And yet, despite the silence and as a direct result of Kadar’s demonstration, into the new camp had wandered a steady stream of willing recruits. These people knew little or nothing about Babu Islam but still they came, for the bombing had been a beacon for the faithful to take up the fight.
The first of the arrivals caused a great deal of concern. Any one of the new recruits could be a spy. The solution had been a costly and time-consuming one, but necessary. A panel of trusted men was created to handle the influx. The arrivals were questioned and background checks performed. The newcomers were thoroughly searched, of course, and quarantined for a time until the background checks were completed. So far, no spies had been identified but the core of a bureaucracy had been created, perhaps the beginnings of a workable security infrastructure that could be imposed once Babu Islam assumed power.
More than likely there were other groups like Babu Islam also enjoying an influx of new blood; Jamaah Islamiah and the Islamic Youth Movement – the GPI – and others benefiting from the blow they’d dealt the Great Evil, the United States of America. The resources required to process the arrival of so many new enthusiastic hands had been considerable, but the influx had been welcome.
Working parties had been hard at their labours for a good hour before dawn. The runway was already partially hacked out of the jungle and mangroves, and all the major buildings were up. Indeed, the bombing had profoundly affected the atmosphere at the camp. There was a sense of elation underpinned by a renewed purpose. Duat had noticed small shrines dedicated to Dedy and his heroism, incense burning before blurred snapshots of the man. It was not strictly the Muslim way, but the movement had attracted followers from the four corners of the sprawling Indonesian archipelago, and with them had come a melange of local superstitions and idiosyncrasies. In time, a deeper understanding of the Qur’an would purge Babu Islam of these impurities but at the moment, Duat had decided to tolerate them – there were other priorities.
Dedy Abimanu’s sacrifice had, overnight, become the benchmark of a man’s dedication to the cause and a demonstration of his love for Allah. Already, Duat had received several requests from others begging for martyrdom in the name of Allah and for the eternal benefits that would flow to them for this sacrifice. This was something Kadar Al-Jahani had predicted, something that could be put to good use when the time came for coordinated attacks throughout Indonesia, Malaysia and the Philippines, for an army of committed believers would be required to give up their lives.
A small crab scuttled across Duat’s instep and brought him out of his reverie. He raised the binoculars to his eyes again and ran a forefinger across the wheel, bringing the mist on the horizon into focus.
‘If the navigation package works, we would not expect to receive its transmission signal for another sixty-five seconds,’ said Hitu Hendra by his side, a former communications lieutenant in the Tentara Nasional Indonesia – Angkatan Udara, the Indonesian air force.
Duat nodded. The two men stood together, each lost in his own solitary world. Duat had no real understanding of the problems and challenges faced by Hendra, and the former air force man was equally blind to Duat’s concerns.
Hendra pondered this latest flight test. The electronics that came with the drone were smashed and beyond repair, as were its sophisticated infrared and optical cameras – no doubt the result of its fall to earth in Israel. So Hendra had had to create a guidance system from scratch – something the Americans spent millions of dollars and years to develop, and he’d had to do it with off-the-shelf technology. But rather than being daunted by the task, Hendra had at first relished it. Ingenuity was what kept the TNI-AU flying, and it would also get Babu Islam’s unmanned aerial vehicle – its very own UAV – off the ground and to its target.
Hendra had experimented with a number of different possible technology paths, all of which had failed for one reason or another, and he was beginning to think that perhaps his promise of success to Duat and Kadar Al-Jahani had been the product of pride rather than of ability. Even though wide experience with aircraft and computers enabled Hendra to test systems that appeared to be workable in theory, they turned out to be flawed in practice.
Hendra watched a couple of seagulls turn and bank on the air currents and then skim across the water, all in complete control. They mocked him. He bit his nails down to the quick as he walked back and forth, willing the test to be a success.
Duat scanned the horizon with binoculars, forcing his tongue into the hole in his front teeth. This was the fourth test flight he’d witnessed, all failures. And there had been others he hadn’t attended. This particular test aircraft was small, no more than a child’s toy, really, with a wingspan of two metres. It was supposed to be heading inbound to the encampment by now, following the completion of a twenty-kilometre loop over the open water. Duat looked at his watch.
‘Any moment now, sir,’ said Hendra, feeling the tension. ‘When the plane climbs above the horizon, we should receive a signal from its transmitter.’
Duat grunted a reply without lowering his binoculars.
Hendra glanced at his watch. Thirty seconds and counting. The seconds ticked by. Duat and Hendra searched the distance. A minute passed. Silence.
‘I’m sorry, Duat. I don’t know why –’
‘I need to know if this will work,’ said Duat, cutting him off. He was angry, his face red and the vein in his forehead was pulsing.
‘Yes, sir – Emir,’ said Hendra, still unable to shake the habit of calling Duat ‘sir’ after twenty years in the military. ‘I don’t know what went wrong. Something unforeseen must have happened. Dirty fuel, perhaps.’
Duat looked at Hendra. ‘If you truly love Allah, Hitu, you will not fail, for loving Allah leads to perfection in all things. Should you fail in your task here then I will question that love, Hitu. I will question it very strongly.’
The blood drained from Hendra’s face, and he swallowed involuntarily as Duat turned his back on him and walked slowly up the beach.
Hendra stayed by the water’s edge until his calculations told him the test airframe would have well and truly run out of fuel. Where was the problem? Industrial tilt sensors in the aircraft’s wingtips and nose were employed to keep the test drone flying level. As for the guidance system, that problem was far more difficult. He’d ended up mating a personal digital assistant with built-in GPS to off-the-shelf radio control equipment. The PDA was loaded with aircraft navigation software. The system worked fine in tests, but perhaps it was all too complicated. He needed something simpler to guide the UAV to the target, but what?
Two young boys were sitting off the end of the airstrip, laughing over something they had hidden between them. One looked up as Hendra approached, and dug his friend sharply in the ribs. The other boy hid the source of their entertainment behind his back. ‘Show me,’ Hendra said, holding out his hand.
They refused and one of the boys ran off, frightened.
‘Show me. Now,’ Hendra demanded, his tone angry but his curiosity aroused. He held out his hand and gestured with his fingers insistently for the contraband, whatever it was, to be turned over. What were they hiding, huddled here away from the encampment? Pornography? American filth? An electronic beeping sound came from behind the boy. ‘Now,’ Hendra demanded again. The boy held it up. It was a computer game, a toy. Hendra knew about these, they were popular amongst the younger men in the air force, used to help pass the hours of inactivity, time that could have been more profitably utilised reading the Qur’an. He examined it, turned it over.
The plastic body of the toy was clear, and from the circuitry visible within, it was reasonably sophisticated. The thing had defaulted to its introduction screen. Hendra watched fascinated as a chicken chased a fox out of its coop, pecking at its bushy tail. As it ran, the fox gobbled up chicken eggs. Every few seconds, the device chimed a series of notes and lightning shot from the chicken’s beak, momentarily frying the fox. ‘Do you have any other games?’ Hendra asked, something about the toy intriguing him. The boy shook his head. ‘It’s okay. I’ll give them back. May Allah judge me harshly if I don’t.’
The boy thought about that for a few seconds before reaching into his pocket and holding up two small squares of bright plastic, one yellow, one lime green – a racing game with a fat hippopotamus stuffed into a go-cart, and an alien invasion game. He removed the chicken and fox card and inserted the lime green alien invasion program into the device. It loaded up the game and Hendra watched transfixed, his eyes wide with astonishment. The alien spacecraft flew through a complex maze created by a meteor shower without being hit once.