and what would become, the Laskar Jihad.
Satisfied that public outcry over the Garuda hijacking would provide a groundswell of local middle-class and international support for the government’s imminent crackdown against outspoken clerics, General Benny Moerdani retired for the night – unaware that the American president, Ronald Reagan had just been shot, the assassination attempt displacing the Garuda ‘hijack’ from front pages, worldwide.
* * * *
Book One
Chapter One
January 1995
Caucasian Mountains – Georgia – Pankisi Gorge
Russian raiders were perilously close; Rusteli Uzi-yeva could hear them grunt and curse in determined pursuit; the Chechnyan guerrilla thankful that they were not hunting their quarry with dogs. Desperately weary he shifted the weight of the RPK-74 Kalashnikov strapped to his back and forged ahead. ‘Pick up the pace – we’re running out of light!’ The enemy commander’s voice carried through the forest, Rusteli quickening his step reminded that the Russians were not taking prisoners. In his haste he slipped then tumbled forward savagely cracking his head against the ground.
Suddenly the air ruptured with Russian automatic fire when soldiers randomly sprayed the heavily wooded slope in an attempt to flush him from hiding. Disorientated, the Chechnyan guerrilla rose groggily on uncertain feet only to trip over the spreading roots of a towering beech – his body sliding uncontrollably down an icy ridge into a snow-filled hollow where he smashed against a half-buried metal container, incongruous in these surrounds. Dazed, Rusteli remained deathly still, his heart pumping wildly when the soldiers approached to within a few metres of where he lay – moments later washed with relief when their commander growled, ‘Signal the men to regroup, we’ll never find the dung-eating bastard now.’
The Chechnyan decided to remain in hiding until confident that the Russians had truly abandoned their search – his attention turning to the partially uncovered metal object. Curiosity aroused, he scraped ice away only to discover that there were two similar containers which, he concluded, had long been discarded and were therefore of no value – and, unable to lift the one-meter-long, four hundred kilo apparatus, he soon lost interest. With darkness rapidly descending over the mountainous Caucasian region he braced against the collapsing temper-atures, and retraced his steps down the mountain to a hamlet on the flat, green valley floor.
He was forty kilometres south of the Chechnya-Georgia border.
The following morning Rusteli was already seriously ill with severe skin burns and internal organ damage. The Chechnyan was bundled together with some seventy other wounded guerrillas and taken to Amman for treatment in Jordan where sympathy and support for the Muslim rebels remained strong. Rusteli’s condition rapidly deteriorated – he was destined to die. Before his death, the doctors were able to determine he had been exposed to some form of radiation and mentioned this unusual development to Omar Khattab, a key leader of the Chechen resistance, during one of the Arab’s morale-boosting visits to the hospital. Omar questioned the dying Chechnyan who, until then, had not associated his illness with the discovery of the abandoned metal containers.
Within days of Omar Khattab’s interrogation Rusteli Uzi-yeva died from his fatal dose of radiation, unaware that he had stumbled across Soviet-made RTGs, the radio thermal generators discarded some years before with the collapse of the Soviet Union. The RTG’s core, a flashlight-size capsule of strontium 90 had been encased in a thick protective layer of lead to absorb radiation.
Upon his return to the Pankisi Gorge, Khattab wasted little time in conducting a sweep of the forest area, sacrificing yet more of his followers in recovering the intact RTG units, the real damage incurred when they too were exposed to the generator with the cracked shielding.
Indonesia – Jakarta
Gregory Young pounded the desk with enthusiasm, his lungs exploding as he shouted ‘Yes!’ – the senior staff holding options at P.T. Young & Budiono also pumped when the company’s opening price leaped twenty percent in the first minutes of trading. Young, the senior shareholder and CEO watched the television monitor, hands clasped excitedly across his swelling chest, mentally calculating that his net worth had reached thirty million dol ars. ‘See if you can get Pak Agus on the line,’ Young instructed his personal assistant, ‘then get me Andy Graham.’ He glanced up at the clock, back to the monitor, the words spil ing sweetly off his lips, ‘go baby, go!’ the stock climbing another five points as he watched, the entrepreneur nearly mesmerized by his construction company’s debut on the Jakarta Stock Exchange.
The intoxicating financial mood in Jakarta was such that, seemingly, everything touched by those in the know, could only turn to gold, but only if one accepted that Midas was, in fact, a poor and distant relative of the Presidential Palace – and that the supreme finger belonged to the First Family. Obligatory tithes had to be paid – that was accepted – to do business in the resource rich archipelago which boasted more than two hundred million inhabitants came at a price – both for Indonesians and foreigners.
Over the past ten years the capital, Jakarta had become skyline alley, the fierce competition between the country’s nouveau riche in constructing complexes incorporating shopping malls, office and apartment towers, stripping nearby mountains of material and driving the banking fraternity into an investment frenzy never before experienced in the multi-faceted society. Indonesian bil ionaires stoked the real estate markets in Europe, the United States and Australia acquiring hotel chains, rural land tracts and other investment properties – the once neglected Chinese, the nation’s new czars. Jakarta’s profile had lifted, the enormous growing tide of middle class wealth generated by galloping consumer demand, foreign investment and an ‘it-will-never-end’ mentality creating one of the most vibrant economies in Asia – disguising the avarice and greed which would, within two short years, bring the corruption-dependent, fragile economy to its knees.
‘Mr. Graham is on line four,’ Young’s personal assistant announced from the open doorway. ‘I have Pak Agus Sumarsono’s secretary on hold,’ she said. ‘Pak Agus will meet you at the YPO luncheon.’ Greg Young nodded, pausing before punching the button connecting him to Andy Graham.
The Jakarta chapter of the Young Presidents’ Organization luncheon had momentarily slipped his mind. ‘Tell her I’ll catch up with Pak Agus there…’ then, ‘Hi Andy, got you on the speaker.’ Young bounced around the desk unable to contain his excitement. ‘Been watching the figures?’
A deep resonant drawl filled the room. ‘Yep, the stock’s doing much better than we thought.’
Young’s eyes remained glued to the monitor. ‘Seems to be stabilizing somewhat now?’
‘Early profit takers,’ the American advised. ‘Could start to climb again in the afternoon session.’
Reminded of the midday appointment Young asked, ‘Want me to swing by and pick you up on the way to lunch?’
‘Mightn’t be such a bad idea. Traffic’s starting to snarl though. You might want to leave a little earlier.’
Young agreed. ‘Fine. I’ll be there around twelve.’ He paused, his face serious. ‘And Andy,’ looking down at the speaker phone, ‘thanks for a great job, my friend.’
Andrew
