Chapter 007: Chain Reaction
The Earth continued to rotate on its axis, just as it had for millions of years. Humans went on with their lives, socializing and living side by side as usual. However, at this moment, in several regions of the Earth—specifically in the thirteen countries crossed by the equator—chaos struck almost simultaneously.
Suddenly, dozens of commercial aircraft in mid-flight disappeared from radar without warning. Several military aircraft that noticed the anomaly in the sky tried to avoid it, but they couldn't escape and vanished without a trace. A few managed to report the incident to their central command before disappearing.
The anomaly wasn't limited to the skies; strange occurrences also happened on land and at sea. Around the world, similar reports poured in, shocking everyone.
A strange, dense fog appeared, enveloping everything that entered it.
Soekarno–Hatta Airport Control Tower
Before long, calls from foreign airport control towers came in. An operator picked up the phone.
"This is Changi Control Tower. We've lost contact with several flights bound for Indonesia, especially Kalimantan. Can you confirm?"
The Soekarno–Hatta operator tried to explain, his voice tense. "Those aircraft... we haven't received any direct reports from the airports there either. They seem to be cut off... radar is empty. We're still trying to trace the issue, but..."
His voice halted. The chief supervisor interrupted with a firm tone. "Report to the central authority, but don't panic. Focus on verifying safe routes first. Other active airports must remain monitored."
Another call from Europe came in. Their voices were tense, almost shouting. "We've lost contact with all flights heading to Borneo! They've all vanished from the radar! What's happening there?!"
The supervisor raised his hand, calming his team. "Stay calm. We're gathering data. Don't make panicked decisions. Recheck the radar, retry communication through backup lines."
Meanwhile, another operator scanned the radar map, eyes widening. Red dots—the symbol for aircraft—were disappearing one by one along the Kalimantan route. A faint breath hissed from the corner of the room.
"Pak... this is... too fast... we haven't even had time to check the protocols," murmured an operator.
The supervisor frowned, turning his chair. "This isn't a training simulation. Focus. One at a time. Contact local airports that are still operational, ensure international communication lines remain open. And log every aircraft that disappears from the radar."
The tower became a flurry of movement—phones picked up, headsets slipped on, monitors checked, hands tapping panels, cables jostled, while the intercom triggered internal alerts. Tension soared, but discipline held.
Again, a voice from Changi yelled through the speaker: "All flights bound for Indonesia... not a single one is responding! What's happening?!"
The supervisor drew a deep breath and looked at his entire team. "Listen carefully... we do not panic. Focus. We control what we still can. We cannot let panic spread before we truly understand the situation."
But in his heart, he knew—this was no longer a drill, and hundreds of lives now depended on their precision and speed.
Air Traffic in the Safe Zone
A Boeing 777 cruised at an altitude of 35,000 feet, still 150 km from Supadio Airport in Kalimantan.
"The radio... why is it silent?" the copilot asked, voice tense.
"Try repeating the ATC frequency. Maybe there's interference," the captain replied, fingers swiftly pressing the panel.
Only static noise answered: krrshhhh... zzzttt...
The copilot tapped the panel, staring at the navigation screen. "No response. The airport is... silent."
The captain looked at the radar. Other aircraft markers appeared normal, but the red marker for their destination airport remained dark.
"Do we keep going or turn back?" the copilot asked again.
"We continue, but... prepare the alternative procedures," the captain replied, his expression tight. The crew began checking the emergency checklist, marking alternative airports on the navigation tablet.
In the cabin, the crew and passengers remained unaware.
The copilot glanced at the captain, holding his breath. A sense of unseen uncertainty filled the air.
Other aircraft along different routes faced the same situation: attempting contact, failing, then discussing the matter with their crews. Everyone sensed that something was very wrong ahead—but nothing was visible yet.
Over the Karimata Strait, an Airbus A330 from Singapore heading to Pontianak glided at 36,000 feet.
"ATC Supadio, this is SQ225, confirm reception," the captain said, voice strained.
Another stretch of static noise answered: krrshhhh... zzzttt...
"No response. Try emergency frequency," the copilot said, grabbing the backup headset.
krrshhhh... zzzttt...
Silence again.
Meanwhile, a Malaysian carrier heading to the same airport faced identical issues. On their radar, other aircraft markers appeared normal, but the marker for the destination airport was dark, as if it had vanished.
"Should we divert to Pontianak?" the copilot asked.
"Not yet... try the international frequency," the captain said while pressing the ATC regional contact button.
The same static replied: zzzttt...
In Australia, the aviation control center monitored the international radar. "Why aren't any aircraft heading toward Kalimantan sending signals?" an operator asked in confusion.
"All the airport markers there... have disappeared from radar," his colleague responded, pointing at the screen.
Within minutes, several pilots began to feel the tension. Captains and copilots discussed intensely: continue along a potentially dangerous route or divert to an alternate airport.
Senior cabin crew were summoned one by one. In the cockpit, pilots exchanged looks, fingers moving swiftly across the navigation panel, calculating distance, fuel, and emergency options.
In the cabin, passengers remained calm, unaware that the pilots at the front were thinking hard for their safety. The cabin crew sensed something was wrong, but they maintained composure and comforted the passengers, even though the tension in their hearts could not be hidden.
All aircraft—from Jakarta, Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, to Darwin—faced the same situation: no response from their destination airports, radar points disappearing, communications cut off. All systems on the planes were normal, yet the uncertainty pushed everyone to the brink of panic.
"If they're silent, there's a chance... something happened there," the captain said quietly, but tension was clear in his voice.
"Yeah, we have to be ready for any possibility," the copilot replied, his hand still resting on the throttle, eyes fixed on the radar screen.
For several minutes, all aircraft decided to hold a safe distance—50 km from the affected area—waiting for a signal or emergency instruction. But nothing came.
Meanwhile, regional ATC radar marked aircraft entering Kalimantan airspace disappearing one by one, leaving the screen blank in an area that should have been busy. All around the world, air-traffic control systems were under maximum strain—no one knew whether this was a routine technical disturbance or something far more terrifying.
Confusion at Altitude – Safe Zone
At cruising altitude, the Boeing 777 glided above thin clouds. The radar screen showed empty skies; the usual flight path toward Kalimantan looked deserted. The pilot pressed his headset, attempting communication.
"This time... emergency frequency," the copilot said, his finger pressing the PTT button.
"Who's going to respond?" the pilot muttered. The communication display remained dark.
They tried several more times; static and silence filled the cockpit. Every second felt heavier. Outside the window, the sky looked like any normal blue, but their minds were filled with the worst possibilities: the destination airport was not responding.
"If they're not responding, our options?" The copilot looked at the digital map.
The pilot swallowed, pressing the autopilot button to stabilize the aircraft. "We have to turn back or reroute."
At the nearest reroute ATC, the operator's voice sounded tense. "Flight 768, we received your emergency call. Please confirm your alternate route."
The pilot nodded. "We're not receiving any signal from our destination airport. Requesting guidance to the nearest safe reroute for landing."
ATC checked the coordinates. "Flight 768, head northeast, runway 27L is available. We confirm the airspace is safe."
The copilot turned to the pilot, breath slightly tight. "Are we really turning now, sir?"
The pilot nodded firmly, pressing the communication button to the cabin. "Good morning, everyone. We will be changing our route due to safety reasons. Please remain calm and follow crew instructions."
In the cabin, passengers looked at the map display as they listened to the pilot's calm voice. They weren't panicking, but a thin layer of tension spread through the cabin: a sudden route change, without detailed technical explanation.
Back in the cockpit, the pilot and copilot exchanged glances, every movement calculated carefully. On the radar screen, the previous flight path was now empty—as if the sky itself was holding its breath.
A few minutes later, the reroute ATC confirmed: the runway was ready, air traffic monitored. The pilot exhaled deeply. Their decision had been made, but the tension hadn't left; every second ahead still held unseen possibilities.
Panic in the Air — Impact Zone
Morning sunlight still streamed through the cockpit window, but that calm shattered instantly. "Radar... gone!" the captain shouted, eyes widening at the suddenly blank screen.
The copilot tapped the panel. "Throttle... autopilot... everything's dead!"
His voice caught, breaths quick. The communication display showed pitch-black. All internal systems were completely cut off.
Cabin lights went out. From inside the cabin came children's screams and adults' panicked whispers. Some passengers pointed toward the windows—the morning sunlight was the only source of illumination.
The engines shut down completely. Autopilot vanished. The aircraft plunged wildly from altitude. The captain and copilot clung to their controls, faces pale. A slight tremor came first, then grew stronger as the wings lost lift. The creeping sensation of freefall crawled into their bones, spreading contagious panic.
The cabin crew tried to calm the passengers, but even they couldn't steady their own racing hearts. Luggage shifted, seats shook, cries mixed with sharp breaths. "Please... hold on!" a flight attendant shouted, trying to steady a crying child. Emergency lights flickered briefly, then died as well. In the darkness, only the sound of wind and the aircraft's rumbling could be heard.
The plane wasn't the only one—many others were losing control.
The pilot tried to steer toward the ocean or an open area, but the engines were completely dead. The aircraft plunged erratically, shaking as the landing gear and wing structure strained under gravity.
"This... is uncontrollable!" the captain yelled, staring at the horizon.
The copilot tried mechanical maneuvers, shifting flaps and rudder, but without engine power, the plane kept falling. Passengers screamed, water bottles spilled, seats lurched—panic everywhere.
Some aircraft entered a mysterious fog that appeared suddenly like a massive white curtain stretching across the horizon.
Planes that penetrated the mysterious fog encountered the same conditions—total engine shutdown, autopilot gone. But once inside the fog, the physical sensation felt stranger. The air felt denser, the light reflected oddly, and the turbulence became more extreme.
The captain screamed, "What... is this place we're entering?!"
The copilot stared at the thick fog. "We're... going down!"
Passengers who had been silent now panicked. Seats and luggage were thrown, screams echoing everywhere. The aircraft slammed into the surface of Mandrasangara—hard ground or some alien marsh absorbing the impact, producing a loud thud and a burst of dust.
Chaos on the Highway — Mysterious Fog Impact Zone
Late morning approached. Sunlight pierced through the thin fog on the horizon, reflecting off the wet asphalt after last night's rain. The Kalimantan highway was busy: timber trucks, private cars, motorcycles moving in lines, several school buses passing by. Streetlights and electronic traffic signs were functioning normally, the mixture of horns and engines forming a constant low roar.
Suddenly, a curtain of mysterious fog descended from the sky. In seconds, an unknown wave of magnetic storm swept across a 10-km radius area.
PLAK! The truck engine died.
BRRRTTT! Private cars stopped, automatic braking locked, dashboards went completely dark.
Tuk... tuk... tuk... traffic lights went out.
"Eh... why did the motorcycle engine die?" a rider shouted, kicking down the side stand while twisting the key. No response.
"What's going on? Why are all the vehicles...?" whispered a school bus driver, face pale. The children inside began asking questions, some tapping on the windows.
A truck climbing uphill slipped backward slightly on the wet asphalt, tires screeching, metal scraping. The car behind it swerved sharply, stopping right at the road's edge.
A driver tried restarting his car panel, tapping buttons, turning on the hazard lights—none of it worked. He grabbed his phone; the screen was dark, the signal gone.
At the intersection, several riders tried directing each other.
A man gently tapped a woman's shoulder. "We... we should... stop for now..."
Children cried, adults whispered in panic, though some tried calming themselves while pulling over. A strange silence blanketed the highway—no engines, no horns, only breathing, footsteps, and the dull sounds of stalled vehicles bumping into each other.
In the distance, a bus on an incline slipped slightly and hit the edge of a ditch.
"Waduh!" the driver shouted, jumping out and patting the hood. People from other vehicles ran over, trying to hold the bus to keep it from sliding further.
Panic spread: some people blew whistles, waved their arms, shouting warnings to other vehicles. But no electronic system responded.
The thin fog in the air reflected sunlight into a dim white glow, adding an "unnatural" feeling. A highway that was usually loud now felt silent, yet filled with frantic human movement and dead vehicles.
Settlements and Market — Total Collapse
The morning market was bustling. Vegetable, fish, meat, and fruit vendors shouted out their offers. Music from a coffee stall's radio played faintly, children ran around with plastic balloons.
Then—BLANK!
In a single second, the radio died. Fans stopped spinning. Everyone's phone screens went dark at the same time, notification sounds vanished.
"The power's out again, huh?" a woman muttered while holding her shopping bag.
But no one answered. Vendors looked at one another—this was more than a blackout. Motorcycles and cars on the main road sputtered and stopped one by one. Engine roars vanished, replaced by the sound of wheels forced to halt abruptly.
An ojek driver patted his motorcycle. "Astaga... this won't turn on at all!"
Elsewhere, power in houses went out. Water pumps stopped, refrigerator hums faded, TVs went dark.
A little child walked out carrying a tablet that had also gone dead. "Mama... why won't this turn on?"
Ice vendors grew worried; their blenders refused to work.
Some tried turning on generators, but it was useless—the engines were dead too.
People began gathering in the street, staring at the sky. A whitish gray fog slowly descended, covering rooftops, swallowing shop signs and the small mosque tower. It looked like morning mist, but felt heavy, pressing on the chest, creating an unsettling sensation.
"What if... this isn't a regular blackout," an elderly man whispered, face tense.
A scream echoed. A young man ran from the end of the alley, pointing toward the highway. "The buses—everything's stalled! A truck flipped over!"
People gasped. Vendors rushed to close their stalls, pulling their children close. Some stayed frozen, unable to believe what was happening.
Only human sounds remained—screams, crying, footsteps. A world once full of engines now felt foreign, as if time had been forced to stop.
Iron Bird Plummeting to Earth
In a densely populated area, people were still struggling with the sudden blackout. Children played on the street, mothers chatted on their porches, several men tried restarting motorcycles that had suddenly died.
Suddenly, a strange noise tore across the sky.
Not the roar of an engine, but a heavy, rumbling whine—the sound of colossal metal falling out of control.
People looked up.
In the sky, a massive passenger aircraft was descending at a tilt, its wings shaking violently, thin smoke trailing from its body. The aircraft lights were dead, its emergency propellers unmoving, the iron bird dropping like a gigantic stone from the sky.
"OH GOD... A PLANE!!!"
Screams of panic erupted.
Residents ran. Children were pulled inside, vendors abandoned their carts, dead motorcycles were pushed aside in a frenzy. But the aircraft was too low, too close.
DUUUUUUMMMM!!!
The first impact struck as the wing hit a row of rooftops, slicing through tiles like a steel blade. Fire burst instantly, dust, debris, and sparks flying everywhere.
The plane's body spun wildly, then slammed into the main road. A two-story building collapsed instantly, windows shattered, power lines snapped and fell—even with no electricity running. The ground shook as if trembling from the force.
BOOOMM!!!
A fuel explosion—though partially disabled—still spewed a massive burst of fire. The sound of shattering glass, human screams, and children crying blended into one chaotic roar.
The surviving residents ran toward the fire, trying to help, even though the flames were far too large. A hysterical mother screamed, searching for her child who had been playing by the roadside moments ago. A young man dragged a body trapped under the debris, his face covered in blood.
Thick black smoke billowed high from the ruins. The fire continued to rage, the cries for help mixing with sobs.
A middle-aged man ran toward the public phone booth, pressing the buttons—there was no dial tone. The phone was completely dead.
"Why isn't it connecting?! Why?!" he shouted in despair.
At the end of the street, a young man turned on his phone and pressed the emergency button—the screen remained dark. He shook the phone, hitting it as if force could bring it back to life.
"Police... help! A plane crashed! Hello?! HELLO?!" a mother screamed as she ran to a neighbor who owned an HT radio. But the device only hissed softly—"sshhh..." then fell silent.
Several people tried to start their motorcycles to escape, but the engines stayed dead. Cars too. The road was filled with stalled vehicles, none of them able to move.
"Ambulance! Call an ambulance, quickly!" a young man wailed, holding his younger sibling whose body was soaked in blood. But no sirens came. No flashing blue lights. Only fire and the screams of people.
Amid the panic, the residents realized the bitter truth: no help was coming. Police, rescue teams, firefighters, ambulances—everything depended on communication devices, machines, and electricity that had now died.
They themselves had to be the rescuers, with nothing but their bare hands.
A pale-faced man shouted loudly, taking command, "Quick! Bring water! Find buckets! Take off the roof tiles to put out the fire! Lift the debris slowly! We have to save them ourselves!"
People looked at each other, trembling, but they began to move. Children screamed, mothers cried, but some of the men and young adults tried to help as best they could.
The sky remained dark. A heavy mist hung as if covering the entire world. No sirens. No help. Only humans fighting disaster with their own bodies.