Chapter 006: The Beginning of the Incident
The Mysterious Fog Descends
Supadio Airport, eight in the morning. The Supadio terminal was still flooded with light. The large glass walls reflected the Kalimantan sunlight, the rays passing through the building's glass panels, bouncing across the marble floors and waiting seats, making the entire airport look bright and calm. On the apron, baggage vehicles moved to pick up luggage, a newly landed aircraft began taxiing to the gate, apron crews were busy, pilots checked their instruments, and passengers walked through the terminal clutching caffeine and the sound of rolling suitcase wheels.
The long line at check-in moved slowly. Passengers were busy staring at the flight schedule screens, typing quickly on their phones, or chatting lightly with their families. A mother held back her two children to keep them from running toward the souvenir kiosk.
On the apron, the roar of jet engines echoed from aircraft taxiing or taking off. VRRROOOOM... BRRTTT... the sounds of baggage trucks and luggage transporters synchronized with the morning activity. The apron crew blew whistles and shouted instructions, though none could be heard clearly amid the crowd.
The atmosphere was busy and crowded, yet orderly—just another morning routine at the airport.
Suddenly, the northern horizon cracked like shattered glass. From the blue sky, a thin grayish-white curtain of fog dropped straight toward the earth. Very thin, but it caught every eye.
"Eh... what's that?" a passenger pointed out the large glass window.
"A cloud... right?" another voice replied, uncertain, though their eyes didn't leave the curtain stretching from the sky down to the apron.
Apron crew stopped arranging baggage, their mouths hanging open. "Pak... that fog... it's coming down to the runway!"
In the control tower, radar screens suddenly went dark, every communication panel falling silent at once. Electronic alarms blared for a moment—then went dead.
The tower officers panicked.
"All systems down? What's happening?!"
On the apron, baggage vehicles slowed, panel lights went out, and electric carts stopped abruptly.
The supervisor shouted, though his voice was swallowed by distance. "We need to evacuate the aircraft! All staff, move to safety positions!"
A newly landed plane stopped on the runway, its engines dead. The pilot tapped his helmet, staring at the blank instruments. In the air, several incoming aircraft lost autopilot, lost communication instantly. The atmosphere turned silent—an eerie, suffocating silence.
A mother hugged her daughter who stood right behind the glass window. "Look... the fog... it's touching the ground!"
"Why... why is the color different?" the child whispered, her eyes widening.
From afar, the thin curtain hung like a massive blanket, though it was incredibly thin. Its effect was magnified by the terminal's reflective glass and the dimming light over the apron. Some crew members looked at one another, trapped between awe and fear.
Airport visitors froze for a moment, their eyes fixed on the curtain descending from sky to earth, massive and intimidating. Some whispered; some remained stiff.
A few people reflexively took out their phones, trying to record. The glow of their screens lit their faces, their hands trembling slightly.
"Look at that... all the way to the ground..." a man whispered, eyes widening.
"Can it... can it be crossed?" murmured a woman, lowering her head while recording.
"It looks like a wall... but... how is that possible?" muttered another young man, mind scrambling as he searched his pockets for a gadget.
Many people started taking out their phones to record. But when they looked at the screen... darkness. Black. No matter what button they pressed, it was completely dead. No reaction at all.
"Eh... why isn't it turning on?" a woman shouted, repeatedly pressing the button.
"They're all dead..." murmured the man beside her, eyes widening at the blank screen.
Another young man tapped the record button—still black. A ripple of anxiety spread among the passengers.
People exchanged glances—confusion, unease, and a growing sense of fear. The massive curtain still hung silently, unmoving yet intimidating with its scale, while their usual devices—symbols of control—were suddenly useless.
The EMP Impact
In an instant, the terminal and apron became a place of chilling silence.
PLAK! All flight information monitors shut down at once. Indicator lights went out, blank screens staring back at the passengers.
BRRRTTT! Check-in computers, baggage scanners, lifts, and escalators halted abruptly. Suitcase wheels rolled to a stop, piles of luggage froze in the middle of the conveyor path.
The announcement speakers that usually played cheerful pilot messages and boarding calls now emitted one long hiss: shhhhhhh... then total silence.
The first second brought suffocating quiet. Passengers looked at each other, whispers began to surface:
"Why... why did it suddenly go quiet?" a man trembled.
"The machines... their sounds... they're gone," murmured a woman, her hand pressed to her chest, eyes widening.
Elsewhere, a dramatic scene unfolded.
A lift stopped abruptly. The cabin lights went completely dark, buttons unresponsive. Passengers riding it were trapped between floors, swallowed by darkness and silence, the air feeling different.
Modern human instinct: everyone reached for their phones for light or to call someone. But every screen stayed black, every button dead—just like everything else.
Some pressed their hands to the walls, others held each other, breaths coming fast. Quiet panic-filled murmurs echoed. "Why... why won't it turn on?" whispered a man, his eyes flickering in the gloom. Children grew restless, parents bending down to calm them.
Outside, every terminal and apron electronic died. Lifts frozen in darkness, psychological tension rising sharply.
Some people tried pressing lift and escalator buttons → no reaction, dark screens, dead controls.
The first seconds felt oppressively silent. No engine roars, no beeping buttons, no lift hum—only whispers and shallow breaths echoing faintly. Panic hadn't exploded yet, but tension had begun creeping into every corner of the cabin.
Across the entire airport.
The silence was real and terrifying. No plane engines, no buzzing lights, no electronic hum. Only breathing, faint footsteps, and the soft scrape of suitcases on marble floors.
An apron crew member screamed, "All systems down! Manual evacuation now! Move!"
The atmosphere shifted from calm and busy to confused and tense, while the mysterious curtain of fog still hung on the horizon—silent, threatening, unmoving.
Runway
Ground staff moved quickly, pushing baggage, directing towing vehicles, while the fuel truck rolled slowly toward the aircraft preparing for takeoff. A Boeing 737 had just landed, its wheels touching the runway with a faint screech. A normal scene—busy, noisy, but controlled.
The next second, everything fell silent.
PLAK! All flight schedule monitors went dark.
BRRRTTT! Baggage scanners, check-in computers, lifts, and escalators stopped simultaneously.
The speakers emitted only a thin hiss—"Ssshhh..."—then silence.
Ground staff stared at one another, eyes widening. They tapped the control panels, knocked on cables, tried restarting the systems. "Why... why isn't it turning on?" a technician muttered while twisting a panel.
On the apron, the newly landed Boeing 737 slid a few meters, its wheels screeching before finally stopping. The pilot tapped the cockpit panel, pressed the throttle, rotated the control screen—no response.
At the other end, an aircraft ready for takeoff rolled slowly. Its engines had gone completely dead. The pilot pressed the brake pedal, opened the spoilers, but momentum still dragged the aircraft a few meters along the runway, leaving a silent trail. The cabin crew's breathing grew rapid, hands tapped on the window panes, children whimpered, adults whispered in panic.
Apron vehicles—towing units, baggage carts, fuel trucks—stopped at the same time. Some jolted slightly on uneven asphalt, but gravity kept them from rolling away. Staff ran to the dead vehicles, knocking on panels, trying to restart them, waving to the aircraft, attempting manual communication.
The atmosphere turned eerily silent. Only footsteps, breaths, and a few soft collisions between vehicles could be heard. The silence felt so real, pressing down on everyone's psychology on the runway.
Everyone realized one thing: the systems and technology they usually depended on were now completely useless.
Soekarno–Hatta Air Traffic Control Tower
That morning, the Soekarno–Hatta control tower was filled with the roar of monitors, radio chatter, and the clicking of panel buttons. Operators coordinated with one another, monitoring departure schedules, arrivals, and the movements of international flights entering Indonesian airspace. Sunlight pierced through the large windows, illuminating the faces of staff who were focused intensely on the radar screens.
"Garuda 747, cleared for landing, runway three," an operator said firmly.
"AirAsia 320, check altitude... maintain flight level two-three-zero," another replied while typing rapidly.
Everything ran as usual—busy, orderly, but under control.
Sudden Oddity
A young operator, Rafi, stared at his screen with widening eyes. "Uh... this... why did Supadio Airport's radar... lose signal?"
The colleague beside him turned, squinting. "Recheck it... maybe temporary interference." He tapped the panel, trying to call the internal technicians.
Not long after, one by one, other staff members began pointing at their monitors.
"Balikpapan Airport too... empty!"
"Makassar... no response from their control...!"
The shift supervisor, Pak Hari, leaned forward, swallowing hard. "It can't be just one or two... this... this is a lot!"
A series of calls to other airports began. Some picked up, some were immediately busy. But one by one, the voices of operators on the other end turned into static—and then disappeared.
"Pak... communication is completely cut off!" a staff member shouted.
"Technicians—quick! Check the main line!" the Head Supervisor ordered.
Seconds passed. The radar screens remained dark, the aircraft blips that should've been visible disappeared one by one without a trace.
"Pak... the Jakarta–Pontianak flight... it's gone from the radar!" Rafi nearly shouted, his face pale.
"That's impossible... check again, check everything again!" Pak Hari pressed buttons in panic, tapped panels, slapped cables—nothing worked.
Nearby, a young operator stared at the backup screen, his voice shaking. "Pak... everything... all of them... lost contact!"
The shift supervisor swallowed hard, sweat trailing down his temple. He spun his chair, facing the entire team. "One by one... write down everything missing. Don't panic. Follow procedures!"
Panic began creeping in, but still within bounds—uncertainty made everyone hold their breath. The radar screens, usually filled with aircraft blips, now showed complete emptiness over several regions. Some planes that should've been tracked vanished instantly.
"Pak... Lion 789, last position over Sulawesi... gone from radar," another operator said, voice trembling.
"W-what do you mean gone?" The shift supervisor stared at the screen, his heartbeat pounding.
The tower staff gazed at the blank radar screens, breathing uneven, hands trembling as they pressed unresponsive buttons.
"Pak... all... all Kalimantan airport radars just disappeared from the screen," Rafi said, shaking, struggling to hold back panic.
The shift supervisor, Pak Hari, frowned. "Don't panic. Recheck everything. Backup systems, secondary radar, internal lines!"
An operator tapped the panel, knocked on cables, even pressed buttons harder. "Still... no response, Pak!"
Hurried footsteps echoed across the tower floor. Other operators turned, trying to make sense of the situation. On the screens, the aircraft blips—various domestic and international flights—vanished, one after another.
"This... this is impossible," one staff member murmured, swallowing hard.
Pak Hari turned to the technician beside him. "Check everything from the start. Don't panic. All internal procedures—now!"
The technician nodded and ran to the backup panel, trying to restart the system. But the screen stayed dark, the buttons stayed dead. The tower grew increasingly suffocating, filled only with breaths and hurried footsteps.
Fast footsteps, anxious whispers, louder panel tapping. A technician nearly shouted, "Pak, the backup... the backup is dead too!"
Pak Hari looked at them, trying to hold his own panic, but his voice trembled as he said, "Everything... all communication lines are down... record everything... now!"
Another operator tapped his headset, checked the radio cables, tried the intercom—nothing responded. The aircraft blips kept disappearing, one by one.
A staff member lowered his head, covering his face with his hands, breath shaking. "This... this is too many... more than five aircraft... the number... it's still increasing?"
The tension exploded in the room. Some argued sharply, some slammed the tables. Even those who were usually calm began to tremble. Collective panic slowly took over, but there was still an attempt at control.
Pak Hari slammed the table, his voice hoarse: "Stay focused! Don't act recklessly! Record everything, internal coordination—anyone who still has a communication line, use it now!"
Every staff member looked at one another, eyes widening, hearts pounding fast. No one knew the cause. No one knew whether this would pass soon or was the beginning of something far worse.
Minutes passed. The tower personnel tried everything: tapping panels, knocking cables, even activating the backup system. All useless. The machines were completely dead. The planes were gone. Not just one, but dozens.
Silence. Heavy breathing filled the room as each staff member swallowed their anxiety. The shift supervisor stood, looking across the entire room. "If we don't report this... thousands of lives..." he murmured, his voice raspy.
A senior staff member stepped forward, picking up the emergency phone.
"Ready, we'll report to the concerned authorities," said the shift supervisor. "But... don't panic. Report the facts. No speculation."
The next seconds became an improvised emergency briefing. Phones rang, backup radios were activated. They contacted the national aviation authority.
The operator on the other end answered, shocked. "What... what do you mean? Dozens of planes disappeared at once?"
The shift supervisor held his voice steady, speaking calmly: "Supadio Airport, Haluoleo, Sam Ratulangi, Frans Kaisiepo, and Rindani... radar services, communication, backup systems—they're all dead. Aircraft currently in flight cannot be contacted. All systems are down."
For a moment, a long silence echoed from the other end. Then a sigh: "Absurd... that shouldn't be possible at the same time..."
But the shift supervisor suppressed his frustration and replied: "This is real. We saw it ourselves. We're not adding anything. Please proceed according to emergency procedure."
The staff on the other end began mobilizing their network, checking coordination with other airports. Some were shouting, insisting the report was impossible. Others panicked, trying to form mitigation steps.
Back in the control tower, personnel recorded every second: the time each plane vanished, the flight numbers, the last known positions. The shift supervisor stared at the notes, then lifted the radio: "Prepare all evacuation protocols and international coordination. Don't wait until lives are at risk!"
Across the room, the air felt hot even though the AC was set to maximum. Everyone stared at the blank screens, holding their breath. Every phone ring, every radio tone tightened the tension. They knew: one small mistake could cost thousands of lives.
"Do we... shut down the flights?" asked another operator, voice strained.
"Not yet!" The shift supervisor cleared his throat. "We must confirm first... don't make panic decisions. We still don't know what's happening!"
The intercom rang—reports from another airport: "We've also lost contact with several of our terminals... everything went dead suddenly..."
Instantly, the tower became a center of anxiety. Operators exchanged looks, one by one staring at the blank, silent screens, realizing this wasn't a normal technical failure.
"Prepare manual emergency communication protocol," ordered the shift supervisor. "Send a team to the field. Record everything that can be recorded. We... we still have time for mitigation—but this is serious."
In every seat, the tower personnel realized one thing: hundreds of thousands of lives in the air were in their hands, and they had absolutely no idea what was happening.
Other International Airport Control Towers — A Wave of Chaos
At the Changi Airport control tower in Singapore, operators were busy monitoring radar screens and international flight paths. The atmosphere was normal, yet tense—filled with cross-country communications, airline calls, and weather reports.
Suddenly, the radar screens flickered. One by one, aircraft blips disappeared.
"Uh... hold on, this is weird," murmured an operator, his eyes fixed on the monitor. "All flights to Indonesia... no response."
Another operator tried dialing the backup line. "Communication link to the airport?"
A busy tone echoed from the speaker. Seconds passed, but no answer came. Only the soft sound of the operator's breathing filled the room.
In Bangkok, Narita, and Kuala Lumpur, similar scenes unfolded. Control towers rushed to check their radars, trying various communication channels, but the affected airports in Kalimantan and several others seemed completely cut off.
A staff member in Kuala Lumpur swallowed hard, his hands trembling. "We've lost contact with every flight that's supposed to cross Indonesia!"
"Report it to the regional authority," the tower chief ordered, trying to keep the team calm. "Monitor other routes, don't panic..."
Back in Changi, another operator tried reaching Tokyo and Hong Kong. Panic was creeping into his voice. "We're experiencing disruptions on all Indonesian communication channels as well!"
The chief supervisor at Changi tapped the table, attempting to impose order. "Stay focused. Log every missing flight and use the backup channels. Don't let this escalate before we verify."
But across every radar screen, red blips kept vanishing. Operators' voices tangled with international phone calls, shouting, the hiss of strained breathing, and frantic clicking of communication switches.
In Europe, aviation authorities received incoming reports: planes en route to Southeast Asia had suddenly vanished from radar, and every attempt to contact Indonesian airports had failed. Heated discussions erupted in control rooms:
"Is this a system malfunction?"
"Impossible... our radar and comms are functioning normally!"
"Then how are all routes to Indonesia suddenly cut off?"
Within minutes, global confusion shifted into controlled panic. Every tower attempted to verify reports, notify superiors, and initiate emergency procedures. But one thing was clear: something unusual—and extremely serious—was happening along the equatorial line.
Every controller understood: hundreds, even thousands of lives now hung on uncertain information, and swift decisions had to be made—despite the facts remaining unclear.