The perimeter fence of the radio outpost wasn’t electrified, but the sight of two armed guards leaning against a rusted corrugated shed made it feel just as lethal. Bima knelt in the tall, razor-edged grass, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"They have a satellite uplink," Rangga whispered, his voice barely audible over the crickets. He pointed toward the shack. "If we can reach that console, we can ping the provincial office directly. But the guards have eyes on every approach."
Bima adjusted his glasses, his hands slick with cold sweat. He looked at the shack, then at his own tattered, mud-stained suit jacket. The absurdity of it hit him. He was a man who, forty-eight hours ago, had been worried about his parking space in Jakarta. Now, he was a guerilla tactician with a mountain of legal trouble and a target on his back.
"They're private security," Bima muttered, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the way the foreman held his rifle. "They’re not soldiers. They’re contractors. They want a paycheck, not a firefight."
"What are you doing?" Rangga hissed as Bima began to stand.
"Changing the narrative," Bima replied, brushing dead leaves from his shoulders. "Stay here. If I’m not back in ten minutes, start the diversion."
"Bima, wait..."
Bima didn't wait. He stepped out from the treeline, hands held deliberately away from his body, his posture shifted into the aggressive, polished confidence of a corporate auditor. He walked with a calculated, rhythmic gait toward the perimeter fence.
"Hey!" one of the guards shouted, swinging his rifle up. "Who the hell are you? Get back!"
Bima didn't slow down. He flashed a piece of heavy, laminated cardstock he’d swiped from his own desk before fleeing the city. It looked official enough in the dim light. "I am Arisandi from Regional Compliance," Bima barked, his voice carrying the sharp, cutting authority of a man who held the power to fire everyone in sight. "And I am three hours late for an unscheduled safety audit. Do you have any idea how much this delay is costing your firm in penalty fees?"
The guard hesitated, his finger hovering near the trigger. He looked at his partner, then back at Bima. The sudden surge of bureaucratic confidence was disorienting.
"We weren't told about an audit," the foreman said, stepping forward, his brow furrowed. "This is a private logging concession. You shouldn't even be out here."
"That is exactly why I am here," Bima snapped, stepping right into the foreman’s personal space. He stood tall, projecting a level of cold, detached superiority that made the guard flinch. "My firm is investigating the recent 'incidents' involving unauthorized land clearance. If I find a single safety violation in that shed, I will personally ensure your contracts are voided by sunrise. Now, are you going to be the reason I file a non-compliance report, or are you going to let me do my job?"
The foreman shifted his weight. The sheer audacity of the city suit was enough to rattle his professional instincts. "Look, we're just doing our jobs, sir. If you want to talk to management..."
"I don't want to talk to management. I want to see the terminal," Bima interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "The GPS logs. Now. Unless you’d like to explain to your superiors why you blocked a federal-level inspection."
The foreman spat on the ground but signaled his partner to lower the rifle. "Fine. Two minutes. Then you're gone."
"I'll take as long as the data requires," Bima retorted, his voice icy.
He stepped past them, entering the cramped, sweltering shack. The smell of diesel and overheated circuitry filled the air. He caught a glimpse of the terminal, the green text blinking against a black background. He had perhaps ninety seconds before they realized he wasn't checking safety gear.
His fingers flew across the keyboard. He wasn't a hacker, but he knew exactly what the interface looked like, it was the same proprietary logistics software used by every major firm in the region. He opened the file, bypassing the secure server, and initiated a direct relay to the provincial press office.
Uploading: 20%... 40%...
Outside, the foreman was pacing, his voice low and agitated. "Hey! You done in there?"
Bima ignored him, his eyes glued to the progress bar. "Almost done," he called out, his voice straining to remain steady. "I’m uploading the final site assessment. Don't touch the power or you’ll corrupt the entire packet."
60%... 80%...
"Something's not right," the guard outside grunted. "Call the boss. Tell him we've got an intruder."
"No," the foreman argued, but the sound of his radio crackling to life cut through the tension. "You, in there! Get out! Now!"
Bima’s heart hammered as the progress bar crept toward the end.
95%...
The door to the shack burst open. The foreman loomed in the threshold, his face turning a dark, dangerous red. He caught sight of the screen, his eyes widening. "That’s not a safety log. You’re transmitting the land grant files!"
Bima lunged for the power cord, but the foreman slammed him into the desk, the metal edge biting into Bima’s ribs. The screen flickered, the upload hanging at 98%.
"You little corporate rat," the foreman growled, reaching for his holster.
Suddenly, a loud, high-pitched thwack echoed outside, followed by the sound of the main radio array crashing to the ground. A spark showered the shack. The lights died instantly, plunging the room into absolute darkness.
"Rangga!" Bima screamed, throwing his weight against the foreman.
The room erupted into chaos. Gunshots shattered the night, the deafening cracks echoing against the dense jungle canopy. Bima scrambled toward the flickering terminal, his hand slamming onto the 'Enter' key in the dark, desperate to trigger the final packets as the guards outside turned their weapons toward the treeline.
"Got it!" Rangga’s voice shouted from the darkness, though it sounded further away than before.
Bima tumbled out of the shack, the cold jungle air hitting his face. He sprinted toward the wall of trees, but a spotlight blinded him, locking onto his chest. He froze, the beam burning into his retinas.
"Hold it right there!" a voice boomed from the shadow of the guard shack.
Bima stood perfectly still, his breath hitched in his throat. He looked to his left and saw Rangga crouched behind a pile of crates, his hand hovering over a primed explosive he’d clearly fashioned from the radio battery.
"Bima, get down!" Rangga yelled, but before Bima could move, the foreman emerged from the shed, his rifle leveled directly at Bima's head.
"Nobody moves," the foreman hissed, his finger twitching on the trigger. "Or the city suit dies first."