Tanjung Priok, January 1911
The salty, stagnant air of the Batavia coastline hung heavy over the bustling docks of Tanjung Priok, where the rhythmic creaking of wooden hulls against the stone piers mingled with the rhythmic chanting of native coolies.
The harbor was a chaotic symphony of colonial commerce, filled with the pungent aromas of drying cloves, fermented tobacco, and the thick, black smoke belching from the funnels of Dutch steamships.
Dockworkers, their sun-bronzed skin glistening with sweat, moved like ants under the watchful eyes of their European overseers, hauling massive crates of nutmeg and mace toward the waiting cargo vessels.
Among the crowd of laborers and merchants, a man dressed in a suit of fine white linen and a polished pith helmet barked orders to his aides with the arrogance of someone who owned the very air they breathed.
This was Pieter Johannes, a high-ranking director of a prominent Dutch trading firm whose influence in the Oost-Indië was surpassed only by his immense and growing personal fortune.
Having just arrived from a brief inspection in the Spice Islands, his immediate priority was to oversee the loading of a massive shipment of spices that would fetch a king's ransom on the Amsterdam markets.
The price of spices back in the Netherlands had been rising sharply due to whispers of instability in Europe, and Johannes was determined to squeeze every last guilder out of the current shipment before the world changed.
"Careful with that wagon, you clumsy fools!" Johannes roared, pointing his cane at a group of soldiers guarding a particularly heavy, iron-reinforced carriage.
"That cargo carries the Governor-General's private treasury funds alongside my own investments, and I will have your heads executed if a single coin goes missing before it reaches his residence!"
The convoy was an impressive display of colonial might, consisting of fifteen horse-drawn wagons flanked by a detachment of Koninklijk Nederlandsch-Indisch Leger (KNIL) soldiers armed with Beaumont-Vitali rifles.
As the heavy wheels began to churn through the dusty streets of Batavia, the convoy moved away from the harbor, heading toward the lush, manicured gardens of the administrative district.
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Wijaya watched the approaching dust cloud from the second story of a dilapidated warehouse, his eyes narrowed as he adjusted the focus on a pair of modern tactical binoculars.
"Target in sight, three hundred meters and closing," Amar whispered into a small, portable radio unit, his voice calm despite the monumental stakes of their first operation.
"They're here," Wijaya whispered.
He had spent the last two days meticulously scouting this path, knowing that the Dutch arrogance would lead them to take the shortest, most predictable route through the outskirts.
The soldiers of the KNIL marched with a lazy confidence, their rifles slung over their shoulders as they joked about the cold beer they would enjoy once their shift at the palace ended.
They had no way of knowing that they were walking into a kill zone designed by a man who had studied the brutal efficiency of twenty-first century ambushes.
"Wait for my signal," Wijaya commanded, feeling the cold steel of his M1911 pressed against his thigh as he signaled to Captain Amar, who was positioned next to him.
As the lead wagon passed a designated marker—a scorched banyan tree—Wijaya dropped his hand, and the silence of the afternoon was shattered by the rhythmic, terrifying roar of a hidden machine gun.
RATATATATATATA!!
A shower of 7.62mm rounds from a summoned light machine gun tore through the lead horses and the front guard, the sheer velocity of the bullets turning the disciplined formation into a scene of absolute carnage.
Blood sprayed across the white linen of the wagons as the heavy rounds ripped through flesh and bone, the kinetic energy of the modern ammunition leaving jagged, gaping holes in the wooden carriages.
The KNIL guards, trained for traditional skirmishes against spears and old muskets, were utterly bewildered by the volume of fire that seemed to come from the very shadows themselves.
One young Dutch corporal attempted to raise his rifle, but a single, precise shot from a bolt-action rifle wielded by Lieutenant Jono took him in the throat, sending a spray of red liquid across the dusty path.
Under the relentless and professional fire of Wijaya's men, the colonial guards folded instantly, their formation collapsing into a pile of screaming men and panicked livestock.
When the fire finally ceased, the only sound remaining was the dying groans of the horses and the distant, frantic chirping of birds disturbed by the sudden violence.
Two masked men, their faces obscured by black cloth, emerged from the tall grass and the ruins of a nearby broken hut, moving with a synchronized grace that spoke of years of training.
They moved toward the largest wagons, carrying small, concentrated blocks of plastic explosives that they expertly planted against the heavy iron locks of the transport vaults.
"Fire in the hole!" one of the soldiers shouted, and a moment later, a sharp, controlled blast blew the doors off the treasury wagons, sending a rain of splinters and hot metal into the air.
BAAANG!!
The interior of the wagons shimmered with the dull glow of gold bars, silver coins, and stacks of Dutch colonial banknotes, a fortune that would fund the revolution for months to come.
"We have fifteen minutes before the Veldpolitie and the local garrison arrive to investigate the noise, sir," Captain Amar reported as he checking his watch.
Wijaya nodded, descending from his perch and stepping into the middle of the blood-stained road, his eyes fixed on the spoils of their first victory.
"Load everything to the trucks! Leave the copper and the heavy ledgers; we only want the high-value assets and the currency."
Suddenly, over twenty men surged forward from the tree line, working with feverish speed to transfer the treasure into the back of two heavy-duty trucks.
These vehicles were summoned specifically for their cargo capacity, their engines idling with a low, guttural growl that sounded like a beast from another world compared to the horse-drawn era.
"What should we do with the hostage, sir?" Lieutenant Adi asked, gesturing toward a figure trembling behind a pile of crates near the rear of the convoy.
Wijaya lifted his brows in surprise, as he didn't recall ordering his men to take any prisoners during such a high-risk hit-and-run operation.
When he walked over, he found Pieter Johannes, his fine white suit now stained with mud and the blood of his subordinates, his hands tied and a thick bandage wrapped around his mouth.
The merchant's eyes were wide with a mixture of pure terror and indignant rage, his muffled whimpers barely audible over the sound of the loading process.
"Look what we got here," Wijaya murmured, looking down at the Dutchmen. "Load him to the truck! He knows the inner workings of the colonial trade routes and the Governor's schedule; we will extract every useful bit of information from his brain."
The men finished the loading in record time, stripping the wagons of their gold and high-grade spices before piling into the trucks and disappearing into the thick canopy of the jungle.
They fled in a neat, disciplined formation, avoiding the main roads and utilizing hidden logging trails that Wijaya had mapped out using the system's topographical interface.
An hour later, they arrived at a lone, weathered barn situated deep within the outskirts of the city, surrounded by hectares of overgrown rubber trees that provided perfect aerial cover.
From the outside, the structure looked like any other abandoned agricultural building, but inside, it had been transformed into a hive of high-tech military activity.
The barn now hosted various pieces of equipment necessary for a burgeoning insurgency: portable radio stations, a small infirmary with modern surgical tools, and rows of weapon racks filled with rifles.
It was a starting base.
"Lieutenant Adi! Take the merchant to the cellar and begin the interrogation immediately; I want to know the arrival dates of the next three gold shipments," Wijaya ordered.
"Yes, sir!" Adi replied, dragging the shivering Dutchmen toward the back of the barn while the other soldiers began counting the massive haul of colonial wealth.