Beasts of the Tropics (3)
Arriving at the second stopover in Palembang, I frowned at the sight of the final plane I was supposed to board after hours of waiting. The fan blades on multiple engines showed significant metal fatigue. It was hard to say for certain they'd snap in the immediate future, but if even one did, the engine would shred itself in an instant. If that catastrophe ended in nothing worse than an emergency landing, we'd be lucky. How could I not feel uneasy?
Indonesian airlines' backward practice of skimping on pilot training and aircraft maintenance to maximize profits was a chronic plague across the industry. That's why major and minor accidents happened almost like annual rituals in this country. Just before I left China, there'd been a crash that wiped out every passenger on board. And yet they still hadn't learned, wallowing in safety apathy.
I could survive a plane crash if it came to that. But not my subordinates.
"We're skipping this flight."
"Why, sir?"
"Bad feeling about it."
My men understood the unspoken implications, and Krut simply accepted the words at face value. For Indonesians living steeped in tradition, baseless unease was never something to brush off lightly. This world brimmed with mystical forces and spiritual entities. That primitive faith had only intensified since magic's return.
Kyung-tae, tasked with scouting alternatives for the group, reported back in a troubled tone.
"There's only one direct flight to Jambi a day. Looks like we'll need another layover. That okay?"
"How long?"
"Nine and a half hours, including wait time. Speed-wise, driving might be faster. Land route's about seven or eight hours."
"……."
Seven or eight hours to Jambi, plus another four to the site—nearly twelve hours in a vehicle. And the last stretch meant bouncing around in an off-roader built for rough terrain, since those roads weren't even paved.
Damn it all. After agonizing, I let out a sigh and made the call.
"No choice. We drive."
Low-cost carriers focused on domestic routes in underdeveloped areas were prime candidates for shoddy maintenance. If luck soured and we hit another "ill-omened" bird, our ETA would stretch like taffy in the heat. Better to endure the roads, fatigue be damned.
"Tell the Sultana we'll be a bit late."
"As you wish, Bapak Anonymitas."
Krut bowed his head to me. The Sultana wouldn't fuss over a delay. Their lax sense of time came in handy sometimes.
With Krut's help, Kyung-tae chartered vehicles, took delivery of guard pistols from a local black-market dealer, and even lined up escort cars from a security firm. Krut vouched for them—the boss was a retired senior cop, most guards ex-military or police. A little extra cash, and petty troubles would vanish.
On the northbound bus, I caught fragmented naps during meditation sessions. One trick I'd been practicing lately involved body reinforcement incantations to induce rapid sleep in any environment. It would boost time efficiency and sustain combat readiness. Suyeon could worry a little less about me, too.
Waking from yet another doze, I realized the bus had stopped. No mystery why—just look out the window.
Again.
The narrow main road cutting through vast tropical rainforests and massive oil palm plantations was under repair in countless stretches. Awakened trees' roots had punched through the asphalt everywhere. Right in the middle of rainy season, no less—water-loving growth exploding beyond normal containment. Humans fought back with unnatural means.
Safety crews blocked traffic to shield from debris as an Awakened ability user in work gear, clutching a detonator, bellowed at full volume.
"Tiga detik sampai bom meledak! Tiga! Dua! Satu! Meledak!"
BOOM!
KABOOM! KABRROOM!
Strings of industrial dynamite erupted, shredding roadside trees to splinters. Extra charges on the Awakened ones minimized magical backlash. Sparks crackled and faded around the stumps. Those would have fried man or machine with lightning if felled normally—hefty old-growth beasts.
Through my Golden Age's Eye, I watched mana essence and power gush like blood from thick trunks snapped as if by brute force. The plants' souls, contracting toward their roots, still flickered with circuits, but output had plummeted post-blast. Plants' modular biology scattered their cores, unlike animals anchored by brains. Still, a human would've died instantly with half their biomass vaporized.
The safety officer waved his baton from the roadside.
"Kamu boleh pergi sekarang! Lanjutkan perjalanan!"
Clear to go. Traffic lurched forward again. When normal logging failed, bombs worked. But wise? Hardly. Civilian explosives use had skyrocketed, making black-market leaks inevitable. Indonesia's corruption didn't help—bribes blinded cops and officials. Separatists and terrorists hungered for the stuff, too. Law enforcement alone couldn't cope with the fallout.
That's how hunter markets emerge even here.
Why did America love private military contractors? To offload government burdens. Soldier or cop deaths were the state's liability; mercenaries' were their own for taking risky gigs. Botched ops or civilian mishaps? Contractors ate the blame first. Protests hit company gates, not the White House. No med bills for the wounded, no pensions for retirees, no fixed payrolls—high pay was no loss.
But in corrupt lands, PMC booms bred vicious cycles. If I ran one, I'd arm criminals for profit, stir chaos for endless jobs, bribe away oversight. Long-term: hostile symbiosis between mercs and crooks, boundaries blurring. Business meant creating demand. I wasn't the only one playing that game—profit chased human nature.
We escaped the endless rainforest after eight hours and twenty minutes from departure. Factoring distance, average speed was barely thirty kilometers per hour. A five-times-South-Korea-sized island with just a couple two-lane roads end-to-end? Turtle pace was the norm.
Towns outside flashed disorder and sprawl. Jungle had half-demolished outskirts homes. Impoverished folk endured leaking roofs and drafty walls, too broke to flee.
Our group switched to the Sultana's waiting four-wheel-drive off-roaders. Kyung-tae griped lightly as we boarded.
"Ugh. A chopper right about now would be nice……."
International ops vets like us were used to ground hauls, but familiarity didn't dull the tedium.
The Sultana had helicopters? Plenty. Turboprops, disguised airstrips too. Ruthless, she could airstrike anywhere. But exposure was the issue.
She just wants to stay hidden.
Local power before crime boss, she didn't need my level of paranoia—but concealing the site was a dark-trade imperative. Winged rides, rotors or fixed, screamed visibility. Airborne meant airport radars locked on. Primary scopes covered 111 kilometers, auto-logging every blip. Without Guangzhou-level insurance, skies were off-limits.
Low-altitude evasion? Eyes would spot you. Infrequent use might work; routine doomed secrecy. Planes from nowhere? Suspicious as hell.
Four bone-rattling hours on dirt tracks and wilds later, the Sultana's site loomed.
Tucked between feral jungle and a muddy broad river. Nearby: seasonal swamps, a riverside village. Prayer time hit; a muezzin atop the mosque's minaret chanted the adhan.
"Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar!"
"Ashhadu an la ilaha illa-llah, ashhadu an la ilaha illa-llah!"
The chant boomed song-like. Krut excused himself, spread a mat, and prayed Mecca-ward. Same as on the way.
No wonder we're crawling.
Her escorts prayed too, so hands on hips, I scanned the fiefdom.
Fiefdom. No better word for this pre-modern pocket beyond government reach. Village had ballooned since last time—over five hundred homes, easy. Oil palms blanketed the far bank; inland plots cleared, likely Awakened trouble.
Next: water- and man-powered generators, machinery. Once powerless sans the site, now wired house-to-house. Total transformation.
Prefabs formed walls around village and site—anti-beast barricades. Tall watchtowers manned by big-game rifle guards swept the perimeter.
A royal descendant's haunt? Pathetic. Even among her holdings, others matched this—garnets and turquoises in the crown jewels. As a crime base, though? Top marks.