Shattered Trust

Chapter 1 - The Accident and Rescue

Major Agus Santoso gripped the steering wheel of the UN-marked SUV, scanning the winding Lebanese road. As the late afternoon sun cast long shadows, his thoughts drifted to his family in Indonesia - Siti’s smile, his children’s laughter. Six months into his deployment, the separation weighed heavily.

The SUV rounded a sharp bend. Santoso’s hands tightened instinctively on the wheel. The road hugged the edge of a steep ravine, with barely a meter of gravel shoulder between the faded lane markings and a sheer drop.

As the SUV rounded the curve, Santoso spotted an overturned car engulfed in flames. Dark smoke billowed skyward. From within the wreckage came screams.

Training took over. Santoso brought the SUV to a controlled stop, angling it to block traffic. He sprinted toward the burning wreck, radioing for an emergency response.

The heat from the flames washed over him as he approached. Santoso’s eyes darted over the wreckage, assessing. The beige Mégane rested on the driver’s side, driver’s door crushed against the asphalt. The windshield had cracks but remained intact. Flames spread rapidly from the engine.

Santoso wrapped his uniform jacket around his hands for protection. He struck the windshield with his elbow and the glass gave way into mini-shards.

Leaning into the car, Santoso made out the driver with blood matted on the side of his head, but he was still conscious. Santoso cleared the remaining glass from the windshield frame.

“Can you hear me?” he called in Arabic. “I’m going to get you out!”

The man’s eyes focused on Santoso, wide with fear. Santoso stretched further in, wincing as broken glass scraped his arms. His fingers found the seat belt release.

“I’ve got you,” Santoso said. “Can you reach up to me?”

The man feebly raised his arms. Gritting his teeth, Santoso grasped the man’s wrists and heaved upward and pulled the man free through the shattered windshield frame.

They had narrowly made it ten meters away when a fireball erupted from the wreckage, knocking them both to the ground.

For several seconds, Santoso lay stunned. Then his training reasserted itself. He pushed himself up, checking on the rescued man.

Despite being dazed, the driver was alive. Santoso’s hands moved efficiently, assessing injuries. “Help is coming. What is your name?”

“Omar... Al-Rashid,” the man whispered. “You... you saved my life.”

“Was there anyone else in the car with you?”

“No...”

Santoso fashioning a makeshift bandage from his shirt.

Omar’s hand gripped Santoso’s wrist. “A debt... A life debt. I owe you...”

Before Santoso could respond, sirens filled the air. Paramedics swarmed around them, aiding the driver and preparing him for transport. Another paramedic finished tending to Santoso’s wounds as they loaded Omar into an ambulance.

As the emergency vehicles departed, the adrenaline faded, leaving Santoso drained yet satisfied. Omar’s words about a life debt echoed in his mind, a concept holding deep meaning in this region.

***

Six months later, Santoso took his place at the head of the table for a team meeting. “Good afternoon, everyone.” After introducing new team member Second Lieutenant Siti Rahma, Santoso turned to First Lieutenant Budi Prakoso. “Lieutenant, I believe you have some concerns to share?”

Prakoso stood, tension evident in his frame. “Thank you, sir. I’m deeply concerned about our security situation.”

He spread a map across the table, pointing out areas of increased militant activity. “With respect, sir, we need to consider a more aggressive posture.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Your diligence is commendable, and we must take these threats seriously. However, we must also be careful not to overreact.”

Santoso recounted the rescue incident, using it as an example of shared humanity transcending conflict lines.

Captain Rahman mediated the discussion, supporting Santoso’s leadership while acknowledging the valid concerns raised.

As the meeting concluded, Santoso outlined their upcoming rotation to secure a critical checkpoint. He emphasized maintaining a peaceful posture, even as Sergeant First Class Dian Kusuma discreetly added more ammunition to their basic allotment.

Santoso released the team and remained behind, studying the map. He traced the route to the UN checkpoint they would be manning. Ensuring its smooth operation would fulfill the objective for their mission. But if things went wrong...

Santoso remained behind, studying the map and route to their assigned checkpoint. He shook off doubts, reaffirming his belief in humanity’s goodness - the very reason he’d joined this force. His men would maintain professionalism while providing security in this war-torn region.

Chapter 2 - The Dilemma

Major Santoso entered UNIFIL HQ, navigating to his cluttered desk. As he typed his report, Captain Rahman approached with troubling intelligence about militant activity and security breaches. Santoso absorbed the news, jaw tight, before informing colleagues of his checkpoint visit.

1LT Prakoso greeted Santoso at Delta checkpoint. In the ops room, he showed suspicious movements on a wall map.

“Checkpoint traffic?“ Santoso inquired.

“Lighter than usual. The lack of activity concerns me.“

Santoso nodded, understanding. “Keep watching those areas. I’ll observe from the front for a while.“

He surveyed the checkpoint, intent on assessing the situation firsthand.

As his eyes scanned the approach road, a familiar figure caught his attention. Santoso’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized the man walking towards the checkpoint - Omar Al-Rashid, the same man he had pulled from the burning wreckage six months ago.

Omar’s gait was steady, but Santoso detected a hint of nervousness in his demeanor. What was he doing here? The coincidence of his appearance, especially given the recent intelligence reports, sent a chill down Santoso’s spine.

Forcing his expression to remain neutral, Santoso observed as his team reacted to Omar’s approach. Corporal Al-Masri nudged Sergeant Kusuma, whispering something Santoso couldn’t quite catch. Kusuma’s hand inched towards her weapon, her posture shifting to high alert.

As Omar drew closer, Santoso thought of his military training. The vivid recollection faded, replaced by the image of Omar’s grateful face after the rescue, his words about a life debt ringing in Santoso’s ears. The two memories warred within him, duty and compassion pulling him in opposite directions.

Santoso’s mind wrestled between caution, fueled by Omar’s unexpected arrival and recent intelligence, and belief in humanity’s goodness.

Before he could second-guess himself, Santoso stepped forward, addressing the checkpoint team. “At ease,“ he commanded, noting the tension in their postures. “I know this man. He’s not a threat.“

Lieutenant Prakoso’s eyes narrowed, obvious skepticism etched on his face. “Sir, with all due respect-”

Santoso held up a hand, cutting off the objection. “I understand your concern, Lieutenant. But I vouch for him. I’ll speak with him myself.“

Santoso raised his hand, waving at Omar with a smile that belied the tension coiling in his gut. He beckoned the approaching man, watching as relief washed over Omar’s features.

“As-salaam-alaikum, Major Santoso,“ Omar called out, his pace quickening.

“Wa-alaikum-salaam, Omar,“ Santoso replied, extending his hand. “What a surprise to see you here.“

They shook hands firmly, the grip stirring memories of their first encounter. Santoso’s peripheral vision caught the subtle shifts in his team’s posture. Prakoso’s jaw clenched, while Kusuma’s hand remained near her weapon.

“Please, come inside,“ Santoso said, guiding Omar towards the checkpoint building. “It’s cooler in there, and we can talk more comfortably.“

As they entered, Santoso felt the weight of his team’s stares on his back. He ushered Omar to a chair in the waiting area, taking a seat across from him.

“So, Omar, what brings you to our checkpoint today?“ Santoso asked, his tone casual despite the curiosity gnawing at him.

Omar’s eyes darted around the room before settling back on Santoso. “I was passing through the area on business. I never expected to see you here, Major. It’s Allah’s divine will that our paths crossed again.”

Santoso nodded, a polite smile fixed on his face. “Indeed, it seems fate has brought us together once more. How have you been since the accident?“

As Omar launched into a description of his recovery, Santoso’s trained eye couldn’t help but notice Omar’s jacket hung oddly, with unnatural bulges disrupting its drape. The Major’s gaze flickered to Omar’s left hand, firmly clenched in his lap.

A chill ran down Santoso’s spine. Had he made a grave error in judgment? The weight of his decision to vouch for Omar pressed down on him, threatening to crush the air from his lungs.

“I must admit again, Major,“ Omar was saying, pulling Santoso from his spiraling thoughts. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here today. But I’m delighted to meet my rescuer again. I’ve often thought about that day, how different things might have been if you hadn’t come along.“

Santoso forced himself to focus on Omar’s words, pushing aside his growing unease. “I’m glad I could help. “Our mission here has its challenges,” Santoso admitted, his eyes flicking to the bulges in Omar’s jacket. “But we believe in what we’re doing here.“

A flicker of something–guilt? fear?–passed over Omar’s face. “Of course. And the Lebanese people appreciate your presence, even if some... misguided individuals might say otherwise.“

Santoso’s mind raced as he observed Omar’s mounting nervous behavior. The bulges in Omar’s jacket and his clenched left hand set off alarm bells in the Major’s head. He needed to act, but caution was paramount. His eyes flicked to the alarm switch across the room, its red surface a beacon of hope and potential disaster.

A memory of his training surfaced. “In tense situations, maintain composure and seek opportunities to gain tactical advantage,“ his instructor’s voice echoed in his mind. Santoso took a deep breath, steadying himself.

“My apologies, Omar,“ Santoso said, forcing a smile. “Where are my manners? Would you care for a cup of coffee? It’s not the best, but it’s hot and strong.“

Omar’s eyes widened slightly, then he nodded. “That would be very kind, thank you.“

Santoso stood, his movements calculatedly slow and casual. “It’ll just take a moment. Our break area is right over there.“

As he walked towards the small kitchenette area, Santoso’s senses heightened. He could hear the muffled voices of his team outside, the hum of the air conditioning unit, and his own measured breathing. The coffee maker sat on a counter just two feet from the red alarm button.

Santoso busied himself with the coffee preparation, his back to Omar, but his ears attuned to every sound in the room. He heard the soft rustle of fabric as Omar shifted in his chair, followed by a faint sigh.

“How do you take your coffee, Omar?“ Santoso asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Black, please,“ Omar replied, his voice tight with tension.

Santoso busied himself with coffee preparation, hyper-aware of Omar’s movements and the nearby alarm button. As he poured, he noticed Omar checking his watch multiple times, leg bouncing nervously.

Santoso concluded that he may have placed the entire checkpoint in immediate peril.

Chapter 3 - The Reckoning

Major Santoso turned from the counter, coffeepot in hand, as Omar sprung to his feet. Omar raised his left hand to his chest, thumb poised on a red button, his eyes blazing with fanatical intensity.

“I’ve paid my debt now. Thank you for giving me this opportunity.“ Omar declared, his voice steady and cold.

The words hung in the air for a fraction of a second, their true meaning crashing over Santoso in a wave of horrified realization. The coffee pot slipped from his grasp, shattering on the floor as time seemed to slow to a crawl.

In that eternal moment, Santoso’s mind raced. Every suspicious detail he’d noticed - the bulky jacket, Omar’s nervous behavior, the intelligence reports of increased militant activity - coalesced into a single, devastating truth. He had been wrong. Catastrophically, unforgivably wrong with no apparent way to reverse it.

Santoso’s body reacted on pure instinct, honed by years of training. He lunged for the alarm button, arm outstretched, fingers straining to cover the seemingly insurmountable distance of mere centimeters.

Simultaneously, Omar’s eyes widened with demonic fury. Their eyes locked for a final, eternal moment - a maelstrom of emotions passing between them. Betrayal. Determination. A flicker of regret, engulfed by steely resolve.

Santoso’s fingertips brushed the smooth plastic of the alarm just as Omar’s thumb descended on the detonator.

The world exploded.

A deafening roar and blinding flash engulfed the checkpoint. The shock wave slammed Santoso backwards, crashing him through the kitchenette window.

Santoso’s awareness fragmented, reduced to disjointed sensory impressions. The acrid stench of cordite. The metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Smoke stinging his eyes. His bleeding ears rang, muffling the cacophony of screams and collapsing debris to a distant underwater echo.

Pain blossomed across his body, a constellation of agony as shrapnel peppered his skin and the impact of his landing sent shock waves through his bones. Santoso blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the world remained a blurry haze of smoke and dust.

Prakoso’s familiar voice pierced the ringing in Santoso’s ears. The lieutenant barked orders, rallying survivors. His words blurred, but his tone commanded action.

Santoso attempted to push himself up, to join the efforts, but his body refused to cooperate. Sharp pain lanced through his chest with each labored breath. He tasted copper, felt a warm wetness on his lips. Internal bleeding, his mind supplied clinically.

As the initial shock faded, guilt crashed over Santoso in suffocating waves. This was his fault. His decision to trust Omar, to let compassion override caution, had led to this devastation. He had failed in his duty, failed to protect those under his command.

Smoke cleared, revealing the checkpoint’s interior. Santoso glimpsed Corporal Al-Masri and Sergeant Kusuma’s mangled bodies by the ruined entrance. Their lifeless eyes accused him, and responsibility crushed down.

He had to do something. Had to help–to try–and mitigate the damage he’d caused. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Santoso attempted to stand. His legs collapsed, refusing to bear his weight. A choked sob of frustration eluded him as he realized the extent of his injuries.

Undeterred, Santoso dragged himself across the debris-strewn floor. Every movement sent fresh waves of agony coursing through his body, but he pushed on, driven by a desperate need to reach his team, to do something, anything, to help.

As he crawled forward, Santoso’s gaze was drawn to the gaping hole blown in the admin building’s front wall. Through it, he could see the checkpoint’s outer defenses - or what remained of them. The explosion had reduced the carefully constructed barriers and checkpoints to twisted metal and shattered concrete.

Movement caught his eye. A white van sped towards the ruined checkpoint, weaving between the debris with obvious purpose. Santoso’s blood ran cold as his military training kicked in, instinctively recognizing the threat.

“No,“ he whispered, his voice a hoarse rasp. Then louder, summoning every ounce of strength he had left, “No! Van! Bomb!“

Santoso’s warning was almost inaudible amidst the chaos surrounding them. He locked eyes with Lieutenant Prakoso, willing the man to understand. Prakoso’s head snapped around, following Santoso’s desperate gaze to the approaching vehicle.

Time seemed to slow, stretching each second into an eternity. Santoso watched helplessly as the van barreled through the destroyed checkpoint. He glimpsed the driver’s face, twisted with the same fanatical determination he’d seen in Omar’s last moments.

In that suspended instant, a cascade of regrets flooded Santoso’s mind. He thought of his family back in Indonesia - Siti, Budi, Aisyah. He’d promised to return to them, to be there for Budi’s upcoming birthday. Now, he realized with a pang of anguish, he would miss it. Would miss everything.

He thought of his team, the men and women he’d sworn to lead and protect. How many had already died because of his mistake? How many more would perish in the next few seconds?

The peacekeeping mission, the ideals he’d dedicated his life to - all of it crumbling around him, both physically and metaphorically. While striving to embody the spirit of peace and cooperation, he had unwittingly opened the door to destruction.

As the van detonated in a massive fireball, engulfing what remained of Checkpoint Delta, Santoso’s final thought was a desperate prayer. Not for himself, but for those he was leaving behind; for his family to find peace, for his team to be spared, for some good to come from this tragedy, however small.

The blast wave hit. Major Agus Santoso and his platoon knew no more.

***

The scene shifted, pulling back and upward. The view rose, slowly exposing the full extent of the devastation below.

Where Checkpoint Delta once stood, a smoking crater now marks the earth. The force of the explosions flung bits of metal and concrete hundreds of meters, scattering debris across a vast area. Small fires still burn here and there, sending tendrils of black smoke curling into the air.

The narrow access road leading to the checkpoint was unrecognizable, its serpentine concrete barriers reduced to rubble. The administration building, once a symbol of order and authority, was now little more than a pile of twisted metal and shattered glass.

The expanding view revealed stark contrast. Beyond the blast zone, untouched Lebanese hills showcased scrubby vegetation. A distant olive grove embodied the region’s resilience.

The camera panned, catching movement on the horizon. A convoy of vehicles approached quickly, their sirens audible even at this distance. First responders from nearby UNIFIL positions raced to render aid.

Ambulances and fire trucks converged on the scene, their flashing lights a discordant intrusion in the eerie stillness that had settled over the devastated checkpoint. Medical personnel in distinctive blue helmets spilled out of the vehicles, fanning out to search for survivors.

The view expanded, revealing southern Lebanon’s scarred terrain. Old and new conflict marks dotted the landscape alongside signs of resilience: rebuilt villages, cultivated fields, and persistent life.

The scene faded to black, preserving Checkpoint Delta’s memory and its personnel—a brief yet poignant chapter in the region’s ongoing struggle for peace.