Tropical Beasts (13)
After returning from the hunt, I spent one more day at the Sultana's villa, observing the interrogation of the prisoners. There was no zero chance that the attack had targeted me specifically. The mastermind behind it turned out to be utterly unexpected.
The Sultana, hearing the prisoner's confession, couldn't hide her bewildered expression.
"Why would those under the Majelis Mujahidin attack me? Has some ulama—Islamic scholar—issued a fatwa declaring my sins? No, if it were a decree from an ulama with that much influence, word would surely have reached my ears by now…."
The Majelis Mujahidin, or Indonesian Mujahideen Council, was an extremist Islamic militant terrorist group based in northern Sumatra's Aceh region.
The mid-level captive cracked after just one day. When a Laskar member's torture electrodes were pressed close, he shuddered and spilled the reason for the attack.
"Because you hunted the awakened tiger."
The Sultana's eyes narrowed.
"You filthy wretch, are you mocking me with some absurd joke?"
"It's true! They said they'd pay an enormous bounty for hunting poachers who kill tigers, elephants, rhinos, and the like! The more valuable the animals they slaughter, and the more poachers involved, the bigger the payout!"
"A bounty? Who the hell made that promise?"
"I don't know! I only heard it from the boss! They offered 500 billion rupiah for this hunt! He said one job like this and we'd all be set for life!"
"…'They'? 500 billion rupiah? 'Offered'?"
500 billion rupiah amounted to about 35 million dollars. Considering the going rate for manpower in Sumatra, it was more than enough to hire an army. Aceh especially overflowed with idle veterans of real combat.
Those resources stemmed from the now-disbanded Gerakan Aceh Merdeka (GAM). The GAM, which had led Aceh's independence struggle, was a nationalist militia and Islamist fundamentalist terror group that once commanded 50,000 fighters at its peak. In 2005, they declared official disbandment and establishment of an autonomous government through peace talks with Jakarta, flooding the Aceh region with battle-hardened manpower that had spent years in bloody attrition against government forces.
Thus, northern Sumatra's Islamist extremist groups never worried about manpower shortages—as long as the money flowed.
The Sultana demanded sharply, "Tell me everything you know. Your fate will depend on how useful it proves. Cooperate well enough, and you might even walk out of here with all your limbs intact."
As if. The Sultana was dangling an impossibly slim possibility.
I sank into quiet thought.
This is bad luck—looks like we've tangled with the eco-lunatics….
As far as I knew, the only maniacs throwing tens of millions of dollars at saving tigers and killing poachers were radical environmentalists. The type often called extreme greens.
It was a little-known fact, but environmentalists were prized clients in both the arms smuggling and mercenary markets, spending lavishly without restraint. For instance, the World Wildlife Fund (WWF), with its millions of donors, had long been a major player in Third World mercenary circles. They hired mercs, smuggled weapons, and built paramilitary outfits for "environmental protection."
These guardians of Mother Nature waged noble struggles worldwide against ignorant natives who didn't grasp ecology's sanctity: torturing eleven-year-olds in front of their parents, murdering twelve-year-old girls for stripping bark, branding flesh with red-hot machetes as lessons, razing villages, torching medicine and food stores, routinely seizing fishermen's catches, incinerating docking sites, strangling men's genitals with fishing line until they necrotized, starving tribes by blocking their access to the outside, gang-raping women including pregnant ones, and more.
What made them excellent clients? They handled their own cleanup. With fawning media and public goodwill, plus potent transnational political clout, they buried most incidents quietly. No blowback, no matter how many guns you sold them.
Among their backers were billionaires with money to burn and key figures from quasi-public foundations. People craving differentiated self-esteem through cash, or true believers steeped to the bone in environmental zeal—or paranoia.
When big donors pooled resources, 35 million dollars was pocket change, conjured overnight.
It must have been six years ago. Japan's most reviled eco-group, the anti-whaling Sea Shepherd fleet, was shopping for a flagship: ocean-going, steel-hulled, perfect for ramming whalers in a pinch.
I remembered it because they wanted a Dutch patrol vessel. Hull alone—sans weapons—cost 12 million dollars, still in active service with coast guards worldwide, including the US. Juicy gossip in smuggling circles. Not your everyday broker bait.
Amid the buzz, Sea Shepherd raised nearly 10 million of the 12 from one gala alone—not piecemeal donors, but a single institutional whale.
That birthed their current flagship, Ocean Warrior.
Considering the donor was the "Dutch Postcode Lottery" and the builder Damen Group, some prior winking likely happened. Still, funneling big money to a group Japan had ground its teeth over for decades? Tough sell.
Admiral Martinez would laugh his ass off.
Contre Almirante Martinez. The Mexican rear admiral who'd personally secured my arms unload at Puerto Vallarta's south docks. He'd self-mockingly called his navy's supply ship Isla Maria Madre—Ocean Warrior's sister—a worthless unarmed tub unfit for anything but hauling prisoners. Higher-ups must've pocketed fat bribes.
Anyway, with that context, 35 million in "noble" donations from high-minded patrons was mundane cash. For wiping out over a hundred armed poachers? Thirty grand a head—cheap contract killing.
Ideology and sentiment make spending feel priceless.
"Ha…."
The Sultana stifled a sigh mid-interrogation.
"So, you were haggling right up until the assault. You had footage of me killing the tiger, and used the unexpectedly high headcount to squeeze for more pay."
"Y-yes. The boss said they needed proof. Solid evidence, and they'd pay any amount. More proof, the better."
"Treating me as prey was humiliation enough—how soft did you think I was to stay so lax and sloppy until blades were drawn? Utterly ridiculous…."
Gulp. The prisoner, kneeling, swallowed dryly and looked up at the Sultana.
"I've told you everything. You'll let me live as promised, ri—"
Bang!
A red dot bloomed on the prisoner's forehead. His skull burst backward in a crimson fan across the floor.
Krut, mid-translation, flinched in surprise.
"I made no such promise."
The Sultana drawled lazily, her hand trailing faint smoke from a hefty German pistol—an H&K Mark 23. Once a niche item for its weight, now surging in demand thanks to top performance, durability, and special high-power rounds.
Holstering it, the Sultana—a faint smile on her lips—drew a pipe from her bosom. She packed shredded tobacco with delicate precision. A ritual to soothe her agitation, it seemed, for this avid smoker.
Tsss! Whoosh—
A long match, over half a handspan, ignited. Custom-made from box to wood for pipe enthusiasts.
Waiting for the black char to curl, she applied the soft flame to the bowl, puffing gently. The tobacco glowed red. This initial light, to drive off moisture, was called the "charring light."
She shook out the match, tossed it, then tamped the bowl lightly with a tamper to settle the burn. A few more draws dried the leaf further. New match struck for the "true light."
Finally, drawing with subtle covers over the bowl tuned the heat. Textbook pipe lighting complete.
Inhaling deep into her lungs, the Sultana exhaled a sigh-like plume and turned to me.
"My friend, what do you make of it?"
"Entirely plausible. And with nature-worshipping zealots multiplying lately, absurd clashes like yesterday could become routine."
"Even so, their money flowing to thick-headed 'warriors of Allah'? Laughable."
"'Eco-Mujahideen' is ridiculous, sure—but Aceh crawls with armed unemployed. Probably flew a front flag, slipped the broker an extra cut to mask their identity. Even Allah's warriors gotta eat."
"Pathetic. Better to turn pirate on the seas. Killing fellow faithful for infidel coin? Deserve divine wrath, the scum."
She knew poacher-hunting beat piracy. Low barriers flooded the pirate market with rivals; international crackdowns intensified daily; even shipping firms mounted effective counters.
"I was reckless. Should've pulled out yesterday."
Late regret from the Sultana.
"Those we crushed had no satcom gear. Yet they haggled till the last second—someone representing the clients must've been in radio range. Should've nabbed them."
"And if you had?"
"Broker or plenipotentiary—could've skinned 'em alive as a warning. Or just the hands, sent back."
"Pointless. Cannon fodder dies anyway; backers are fanatics fighting for faith. Warnings just fan their zeal: 'Worthy foe here to crush!' Only tires you out."
"…."
"Outsource future hunts."
"Advice as friend?"
"Recommendation as partner."
"I refuse."
Short silence, crackling tobacco. Nosing smoke clouds, fiddling the pipe, the Sultana pulled away and shook her head again.
"I refuse. Beasts harming my future people must die by my hand—and those obstructing? Just another breed of beast to hunt. Only after slaying them all will Jambi's people hail me true queen."
"If that's your will, so be it."
I didn't press. This ambush caught us off-guard, but her escort was far outmatched firepower-wise. Stay vigilant, and few could overpower this old lady.
She asked, "Friend, can I count on more cooperation like yesterday in such matters?"
"If possible, yes—but one condition."
"Name it."
"Cut back on the pipe. I can help slaughter beasts aplenty, but lung or throat cancer? Nothing I can do."
Her health was a non-negligible business risk. Decent circuit kept her low-risk for immortal cancer, but lungs stained pitch-black by normal vision? Grim sight.
Whether sensing it or not, Sultana Chandra Kirana answered my blunt request with booming laughter.