Sunda Cloud Read online



  Sunda Cloud

  Kat Duncan

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  Copyright © 2011 Kat Duncan

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  Chapter One

  The old helicopter beat its way over the island rain forest, skimming the tree tops, flying low to avoid radar. The one passenger it carried had insisted on stealth. The precaution wasn't needed. The Indonesian government could barely count its eighteen thousand islands, never mind patrol them. His destination was safely lost in millions of square kilometers of archipelago.

  In the distance, a dozen islands dotted the deep blue water that stretched to the horizon. Each island carried a canopy of dense leafy green protecting the deeper layers beneath, veiling the mysteries that lay at ground level. Surrounding each island was a delicate perimeter of white sand beach. The truce line in the eternal battle between land and sea.

  Above, a series of dark rain clouds puffed the brilliant blue sky. Aerial islands of black with tendrils of gray rain that swept down to the water or across the islands. The pilot made no effort to avoid one directly ahead. A moment later, the helicopter was pummeled with splattering rain. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

  Nikolai looked around the interior of the old airship. The familiar fragrance of aviation fuel and over heated oil brought back fond memories. The Soviet Mi-8 was not as pretty as the American gunships. But it had proven itself harder to shoot down. Like Nikolai, it was a relic of the past. An obsolete throwback to a by-gone Cold War day. Pressed back into service for the not so different present.

  As was Sunda.

  Nikolai looked forward to working with his former comrade again. Sunda Cloud didn't know his birth name. The old PKI communist had been a toddler when his village was burned during the national purge that killed a million of his countrymen. He alone survived. His face and body remained disfigured with a series of dark-edged, cloud-shaped scars that resembled the spots of the Sunda Clouded Leopard of his native Borneo. Hence his orphan name. Like Sunda himself, the leopard was noted for being small. However, pound for pound, it had the largest fangs of any other cat on the planet.

  During the 1980's, Sunda's gorilla resistance against Indonesia's dictatorship had brought him national fame. Then the historic events triggered by 1998 Asian financial crisis had provided Sunda and his followers with an opportunity for victory. However, Sunda had not yet realized the power of money. He failed and democracy flourished.

  This time would be different.

  Democracy had been a disappointment in Indonesia. The rich had grown richer. Corruption was rampant. The corporations controlled everything. Social strife was growing. The time was ripe for change.

  Meanwhile, Sunda's insurgency had matured. He had learned that military force alone was not enough. Money was a far more deadly weapon than guns. Together with his new associate, he had leveraged the billions needed to bring down Indonesia's fledgling democracy. This accomplishment had impressed Moscow. But his selection of Anton Zelman as his associate had been met with much less favor. Which was the reason for Nikolai's visit.

  Nikolai wiped his brow. Despite the swelter, he still wore his signature charcoal gray suit and black wingtip shoes. An overly-tightened black tie strained at his thick neck. Beads of sweat dropped from the remnants of white hair that circled his head.

  The pilot held out a plastic bottle. "Water?"

  Nikolai shook his head no. He didn't want water. Something a bit stronger was needed. Moscow wanted Sunda to succeed. But needed Zelman to fail. It was up to Nikolai to make that happen. This task wouldn't be easy.

  "Almost there," the pilot informed.

  Nikolai nodded.

  The terrain below gave way to scattered palms, and then a section of empty beach as the aircraft broke out over a bay of turquoise water. Then a new island swept below.

  The pilot pulled back on the control stick and the seat harness strained at Nikolai's bulk as the drumming machine slowed to a hover. Directly below was a small clearing, a ragged hole gnawed into the island's high tabletop of vegetation. Slowly, the helicopter descended into the narrow crater. Layers of green absorbed the sunlight, leaving ever-growing daytime darkness. The helicopter touched the twilight ground and its engine slowed to a choking halt.

  Nikolai stepped out. His feet sagged into the springy ground. Wispy fingers of misty steam rose from the soggy soil. The underworld of trees towered overhead. A vaulted cathedral of green supported by a thousand arboreal columns. Narrow beams of sunlight lasered from the high ceiling, streaking through the heavy air. For a fleeting moment, he thought of removing his jacket. But did not.

  Sunda's compound was simple, just a collection of huts cut into the ground level brush. Looking at them, Nikolai couldn't tell in what century he had landed. Except for one hut with several satellite dishes in full bloom over it and a softly purring generator. Groups of men darted about, arranging supplies or swinging machetes at the ever creeping assault of vegetation. Each man wore a black armband.

  Despite Nikolai's raucous arrival, everyone remained focused on their task with military precision. No one looked to the helicopter.

  Except one.

  "Nikolai," he greeted as he limped up to the helicopter. Like the others, he wore simple peasant’s clothes and a black armband. He also wore a traditional straw hat to protect what was left of his ravaged skin from the spotlight of equatorial sun that blazed around the helicopter. Clear eyes stared from under grey eyebrows. A knowing smile told the world that, no matter what, he was always one step ahead. In one hand Sunda clutched a short cane. In his other was a leash that reined in his kindred cat. It looked hungry. Nikolai bent to pet it, then thought better. Instead, he shook his friend's hand. His own massive paw wrapped completely around that of his Indonesian host. But the lean steel-hard muscle Nikolai held left no doubt in his mind as to who was in charge.

  An aide handed the two men short glasses of murky white liquid.

  "Ai ijok." Nikolai beamed, naming the precious palm tree libation.

  "Na zdorovye!" Sunda saluted in Nikolai's native tongue. They locked arms and downed the incendiary beverage in one gulp.

  "I am glad to hear your prestige within the Kremlin is returning, Nikolai." Sunda's voice was as smoky as the fire that had seared it. He placed his glass back on the aide's tray.

  Nikolai continued to hold his. "My old talents are once again useful. As are yours."

  "Yes. There is a growing realization that three hundred uneducated beggars is a mob. Three hundred million is a democracy."

  "As in Russia." Nikolai eyed his empty glass, and the aide stepped to refill it. "I am glad to tell you I have secured Russian Republic silence on your - unusual - trading of Indonesian currency."

  Sunda smiled and patted his friend's back.

  "Your choice of associate," Nikolai sipped his second glass, "it worries many in Moscow."

  "He is needed."

  Nikolai downed the remainder and held his glass out for another refill.

  "I do not like him. He is thorn in side of Russian Republic."

  "Do with him as you will. After I am in Jakarta."

  Nikolai stared at his drink. "He is capitalist. Very clever. Very devious. He will, how do they say, make killing."

  "Yes."

  Nikolai snorted. "But not you."

  "I do not want money." Sunda swept his hand over his meager surroundings.

  "Yes. But your capitalist. He craves money." Nikolai popped his drink.

  "Like the leopard, he must hunt."

  "We have plan to stop him."

  "The flow of life," Sunda commented.

  A goat bleated near the leafy wall that marked the advance of the jungle. It was a tiny creature, merely a kid. Brown fur with shor
t white stripes. Only a few days old. Apparently, it had wandered away from its mother. Nikolai smiled, thinking back to his grandfather's commune outside of Novosibirsk. As a young boy, he had helped birth a set of triplets, bottle feeding the runt that would have died without him.

  Sunda leaned down to his cat and unsnapped its leash. With deft precision, the leopard launched itself at the goat. Too late, the kid realized its danger and leapt into the protection of nearby foliage. The cat exploded onto the animal, ripping through the brush as it pounced. Long fangs pierced the goat's throat while whipping its furry body backwards, instantly snapping its neck. The extra fling the cat gave the carcass wasn't needed. The cat slowly padded back to Sunda and sat with its meal between its paws. Panting, it looked around to assure it could dine without interruption, then began to rip the bloody flesh apart.

  "The flow of life," Sunda commented. "From the goat to the leopard. The goat is not gone. It is merging into a more powerful being. The leopard will eat many goats. The goat will eat no leopards. This is true."

  Nikolai snorted.

  "Bhinneka Tunggal Ika" Sunda spoke.

  "Yes," Nikolai agreed. "The Indonesian motto of unity. Many into one." Nikolai looked to the cat and understood Sunda's double meaning. "When riots begin in Jakarta, many Indonesians will die. This you know."

  "Yes, I know." Sunda's expressionless eyes looked into the distance. "I already sacrificed a son to this cause. More sacrifice is needed. To cure this sickness, such pain must be endured."

  ***

  The best and worst of Switzerland's banking system could be summarized in three words, Swiss Bank United. Thousands of employees, housed in a dozen operations centers throughout the country, controlled the bank's long arms that extended into every country on the planet.

  The main office stood in a gleaming glass and steel building in the heart of Zurich's Bahnhofstrasse. Only the bank's very elite were housed there. The top floor held only one office.

  "Your two o'clock appointment is here, Herr Dr. Mahler."

  "Send him in," the Acting Director General huffed.

  Another finance minister from another third world country who'd run their finances into the ground, and then expected the brilliance of the Swiss to bail them out.

  He smiled. Smart choice.

  He stood and straightened his jacket and tie. Then, his guest rounded the door. His breath caught. Instead of the dour, wrinkled face of her predecessor, Dr. Kemuning Pangbar, was, in a single word, beautiful.

  A shiver rolled down Valter's spine. He swallowed hard.

  "Dr. Mahler," she beamed at him with an open expression, "thank you so very much for meeting with me."

  Her accent was well practiced British, with a delicate lilt belying a Malay heritage.

  "The pleasure is all mine."

  She was perhaps in her mid-thirties, twenty years his junior. She wore no jewelry, no rings on either hand. Just a simple pebbled necklace. Her dark gray sari, wrapped around her trim figure, was tied with a simple bow on the left side of her waist. Her round mahogany face glowed around her smile, accented only by a touch of lipstick and plain brown-framed glasses.

  "Please," she insisted, "call me Kem." She extended a slender hand, and they shook. Her hand was warm and firm, yet yielding to his.

  "Then you must call me Valter. Please, have a seat."

  She went to turn, but could not. He had forgotten to release her hand. With an embarrassed cough, he freed her. After dipping her head, she glided to the chair.

  "Espresso?" Valter asked.

  "Please."

  Valter nodded to his hovering secretary, who disappeared down the hall.

  "Kemuning. Does the name have a meaning?"

  "Yes. It is the color yellow, or more specifically the Bunga Kemuning, the Yellow Jasmine flower said to have sprouted from the grave of a young princess."

  "Indeed."

  The secretary handed Kem and Valter their espressos, and departed. Kem sipped hers, her delicate brown eyes visible over her cup's rim. Her gaze never left Valter's. He rather liked that she was so open and unassuming.

  "Please, Kem. How may Swiss Bank United be of help to the people of Indonesia?"

  She put down her cup, and her previously languid pose turned rod straight stiff.

  "As you know, my country is facing a deficit crisis."

  "Yes. I have warned your predecessor of this many times." He picked up an ebony Mont Blanc pen, fingering it in irritation at prior futile conversations.

  "He was, shall we say, more focused on other objectives."

  Valter nodded.

  "What is perplexing is that despite this," Kem continued, "the Indonesian rupiah has been experiencing a precipitous rise in its currency value. Very unusual."

  "Yes. Difficult to explain. A very dangerous currency bubble. If it were to pop, it would shake the core of your still tenuous democracy."

  "I think the word shake is an understatement. Everything so many have sacrificed would be lost. Perhaps not so difficult to explain if one were to consider currency manipulation."

  Valter's brows pinched. "If that were the case, your efforts here are wasted. I can help with financial matters, not criminal ones."

  "No, not wasted. I'm here for neither financial nor criminal assistance."

  Valter drew back his head.

  "You see," she continued, "my office has traced the source of the over-funding that is inflating the rupiah. It is a man named Sunda Cloud and his associate."

  "Sunda. Your government has been accusing him of as many illegal activities as possible."

  "Yes." She took a sip of her coffee. "The threat Sunda presents to my nation is very real."

  "If he has broken the law, arrest him."

  "We have tried. He is impervious."

  "Then I can not help you." He clacked the pen he was holding onto the desktop and folded his hands.

  "I think you can. It is not Sunda for which I need help. It is his associate."

  "Again, this is an Indonesian matter." Valter sat back in his chair.

  "Hardly. For you see, Sunda's associate is your brother, Anton."

  ***

  "Contact," the ensign declared. "Brown Bear. Bearing two fifty degrees."

  Anton Zelman swung his binoculars to the left. Across the frozen sea he spotted the red ship on the horizon. The bridge of the Canadian icebreaker fell silent as everyone watched the distant ship effortlessly glide through the thick ice before disappearing into a bank of ice fog.

  "NS Yamal," the captain snorted. "Russian nuke in Canadian waters. Bad enough when the Yanks come up here."

  "These are international waters," Anton declared.

  "Not according to Ottawa."

  "Will you chase her?" Anton asked.

  "She can do ten knots through meter-thick ice. No point."

  There was a point. The Russian nuclear powered ice breaker fleet was out-muscling the Canadian diesels. They claimed they were keeping international seaways open for commerce. But where were the freighters? This was not about commerce.

  It was about oil.

  Three thousand feet below them was the world's last untapped oil reserve. Trans-Sea Offshore would soon be able to drill here. Working with the Canadian government, Anton's Swiss-based Trans-Sea was developing Innov-8, the world's first deep-water oil drilling platform capable of operating in Arctic ice. Development cost, a billion. Plus another billion to build her.

  That was a lot of money, even for Trans-Sea. However, once it was operational, Innov-8 would pay for itself in a month. After that was all gravy.

  The only other company that came close was Global Phoenix. GP could drill as deep, many said deeper, as Trans-Sea. But they were scrambling to catch up to the ice capability of the Innov-8 design.

  Ten years ago, Innov-8 would not have been possible. The ice was too thick, typically two meters in winter. But, thanks to global warming, the ice would soon be down to one meter. A far more workable thickness. While the Amer
icans were debating if global warming was real, the Canadians and Russians were fighting over who would own this not-so-icy ocean.

  The Russians worried him. They were already the world's largest oil producer. And were buying their way into GP. A very powerful combination. Many of the plans for Innov-8 had been stolen by them for their own Novshesta-8 platform. Even still, they were several years behind. If they could catch up, they would dominate the Arctic. And squeeze out Trans-Sea.

  If he let them.

  All Anton needed was a couple of billion.

  He smiled. Together, the Russians and Indonesians would help him get it.

  Chapter Two

  Kem stepped through the door and scanned the length of the empty private jet. A cluster of sculpted white leather seats ringed a lacquered walnut dinning table. Another grouping centered around a multi-media computer screen. Fresh flowers dotted the airy, sunlit cabin. Each casually placed vase was undoubtedly securely bolted to withstand any storm.

  She was not accustomed to such luxury and had to remind herself not to ooh and ahh like a schoolgirl. But that's how being with Valter made her feel.

  She turned back to watch him enter behind her. Tall and trim, a full head of almost black hair with just a dusting of salt. His mustache, nearly white, bespoke his age and respectability. But it did not reflect the man. That she could see in his eyes. Blazing gray and blue. A man of both accomplishment, and pent-up dreams. She could feel that the moment she entered his office.

  "How long?" Valter asked the pilot.

  "Jakarta is fourteen hours," the pilot answered.

  Valter nodded and stepped deeper into the jet.

  "I am very grateful that you are taking this situation so seriously." Kem turned and selected a window seat by the table.

  He took the seat next to her. "It is the least I can do under the circumstances."

  "I did not expect such speedy and personalized service. I came only to make a desperate personal request. To perhaps gain some insights that would be of use."

  "Insights are not so easy with Anton." He clicked his seatbelt and settled himself back in his seat.

  "Are your brother's activities always so, how do I say it kindly, suspect?"

  Kem looked at Valter's stoic face as he sat unfazed by her question. Then a single twitch of his left cheek indicated inner discomfort. He was like her. A man who had to hide his true desires so he could pursue a greater cause.